Masks for the Maskless
by skatergurljubulee
Summary: He wasn't a liar.
1. Chapter 1

Rating:R in parts, NC17 overall.  
Pairing: Sam, Sam/Kurt (brief Sam/Quinn, Kurt/Blaine, and Blaine/Sam)  
Disclaimer:_Glee_ is not mine,nor do I want to own it. Just playing around a bit.  
Beta(s): THANKS YOU GUYS FOR BEING SO PATIENT AND WONDERFUL! I LOVE YOU FOREVER.  
A/N: This is what I would consider my dream story arc for Sam and Kurt. This was started the night Duets aired, so please keep that in mind. I did not change the story one bit, since then. Enjoy! This is for all the Hevans fans, but especially to all the diehards out there: It's been great to have your support and brains to talk and squee about this fantastic storyline. **Part 1 of about 10.**

1.

He wasn't a liar.

He wasn't a cheater, a thief or a manipulator.

He tried to be honest, as a sorta code he had for himself, and figured it would help keep all the drama down in his life.

Sam Evans: What you saw was what you got.

At least that was how it went at his last school.

He didn't try to hurt anyone, especially not Quinn. What he felt for her was real, if a little new. If they worked at it, Sam was convinced they'd have something deep, solid.

But every time they'd make progress, a wrench got thrown in the works.

"Bro, I know you haven't been here long, but Quinn and me are a thing. Keep your hands off."

_Shit._

That Puck guy looked pissed, and Sam got why. If Sam had gone on an…extended vacation at the concrete jungle and came back to see his girl had moved on he'd be devastated. But from what Sam heard, Puck's rep didn't include any kind of long term liaisons (ha, big word).

"I'm not gonna fight you," Sam said, and looked over the contents of his locker (he'd be late if he didn't find his social studies book), Puck's gaze like hot pokers on his neck. "But I'm not backing down, either," he said. The book was lodged under his extra jersey (he really needed to put it in his gym locker later) and with a couple of yanks, it was free. Sweet.

A fist, Puck's fist, slammed down on the locker next to him, right by his head.

"What did you say?" Puck snarled as he stepped up in Sam's space, his breath against Sam's ear. "You need to back down if you know what's good for you."

Sam sighed, closed his locker and looked at Puck. This was lame. "Bro, you need to step back. It's not a competition. Quinn's gonna do what Quinn wants. If she likes me, she likes me. If she wants you, she'll tell me, and…" Sam threw his backpack over his shoulder, shrugged, took in Puck's tense shoulders and wild eyes. "I'll step down. But until then, dude, you need to get a grip."

Sam walked around Puck, felt the daggers and the bullseye on his back. From the rumors, Sam heard Puck was all muscle and no brains, that he'd punch first and never ask questions, that unless he was trying to get in your pants or was Finn Hudson, it was best to steer clear.

Sam wasn't the type to put much stock in rumors. He liked to make his own calls on what was or wasn't true.

He glanced over his shoulder as he turned down the hall. Puck was still at Sam's locker, staring at nothing, jaw tense and eyes stormy.

Yeah, rumors sucked.

Sam wasn't worried about Noah Puckerman.

* * *

Kurt Hummel worried Sam.

He had Kurt on his watch list as soon as the guy spotted the dye job. Kid knew things.

"Don't be surprised when Puck comes by for round two. He doesn't take rejection well."

Sectionals were coming up and Glee club rehearsals were getting longer and harder. This was Sam's first time with all the practices, and it wasn't surprising how fast everyone cleared out after Mr. Schuester's tired dismissal. Sam hadn't moved as fast as the others, though.

And Kurt was some kind of ninja in designer labels.

"I'm not worried about Puck," he said as he headed toward the door, Kurt on his heels. And it was true. He gave Puck a little something to think about—it wasn't much, and it wasn't new—but Sam knew he'd thrown Puckerman off his game. Sam didn't like to follow the script too often, so he wasn't surprised Puck hadn't known what to think of him.

Sam had that effect on people.

"Being Quarterback isn't going to keep him off your back," Kurt said, earnest, as they exited the classroom, their feet echoing in the semi-empty halls. "If anything, he'll try harder. Quinn's the only one who's ever mattered to him and it's obvious he won't let go so easily."

Sam thought it was obvious too, but he wasn't going to say so. Well, it wasn't obvious to most people. Rumor had it that Santana and Puck were the bad couple at the school and Santana was the only girl for Puck—and if anyone said different, she'd start breaking legs. But no matter what Santana and the rest of the school thought, Sam knew when he saw a guy who was into a girl and fighting it.

It was real obvious what Puck felt for Quinn, if you knew what to look for. Sam had a feeling Puck liked a challenge. Santana wasn't a challenge, Quinn was—and Puck kinda hated that he wanted Quinn, that she made him try harder.

But Sam was going to keep that to himself. He had feelings for Quinn too, and he had every right to be interested in Quinn as Puck was.

"Thanks for the advice, but I think I'm cool," he said and smiled at Kurt's frustrated face. "I can handle myself."

Kurt blinked at him. "You have no idea, do you?" he scoffed and shook his head at Sam. "Puck's going to eat you alive."

Sam rolled his eyes, leaned against the nearest locker to the girl's bathroom. "How do you even know about this? I didn't know I had an audience."

Kurt crossed his arms, shifted on his feet a little. "I have my ways."

Sam laughed, pushed himself off the lockers as the sink in the girl's bathroom stopped running. "You've got your ears to the ground?" he asked Kurt, stepping a little close, a smile tugging on his lips. "Obi-wan would be proud."

"Oh God," Kurt whispered, and blanched. "You—I can't believe—_Star Wars_—" he clamped his mouth shut so hard, Sam winced in sympathy. "You're a _dork_," Kurt said, eyelids mimicking hummingbird wings.

Sam laughed again, turned his back on Kurt as Quinn walked out of the bathroom. "Dude," he threw over his shoulder, "I didn't label you, don't do it to me."

Sam smiled at Quinn and took her hand. "Hey," he said against her cheek, smiled harder as he felt her skin warm under his mouth.

They walked down the hallway, hand in hand. Sam didn't look at Kurt. He had to bite his lip to stop laughing, sure he knew what Kurt's gob smacked face had progressed to: Shock, and awe, baby.

Shock and awe.

* * *

Sam didn't hate on people for needing to name things. He'd always figured humans needed to do the labeling approach or shit got confusing. He never labeled things, but Sam understood why people did. But he always felt more comfortable and himself when he wasn't scared and was outside the box, doing his own thing. People liked their masks, and Sam was one of them.

Though, he liked to think if he made a mask of what he was truly like, it'd be the exact copy of his own face. He didn't like to have delusions of himself; he knew he was a bastard, when it came down to it.

"Puck and I had a talk today," he said as he pulled into Quinn's driveway. He stared at her house, watched her tense out of the corner of his eye.

"Did you?" Quinn said, clipped and dry to the windshield.

Sam turned in his seat, looked at her and the way she'd shut down from one sentence. He hated when she was like that; cold, sad, confused and fighting it. "He cares about you, Quinn. And I can't fault him for that, because you're one of the best things in my life. But it's your choice, always." He smiled, covered his hands over her white knuckles in her lap. "I hope that what we've got is something you want. I think it is," he said, chuckled as Quinn smiled at him and unclenched her fists. "But I'm not you, so…"

"I want to be with you," Quinn said and leaned across the seat, kissed him softly, sweetly. "I just—" she frowned, pulled away, nose scrunched, wary. "You're honest. It's not something I'm used to with guys. Not since Finn."

That hurt. There was nothing about Quinn that made Sam want to lie to her. There wasn't anyone he felt compelled to lie to—well, except Kurt, but that was because the dude saw through Sam from time to time.

"You're gonna have to get used to that," Sam said and laughed at Quinn's rolling eyes. "No, seriously though."

"I think I'll manage," she said, turned her hands in Sam's, gripped his fingers tight.

Quinn didn't say she didn't want Puck, but that was cool. Quinn was honest, in her way. As honest as Sam thought she knew how to be.

Quinn got out of the car after another kiss, another promise to call. Sam watched her go, and sighed. Quinn loved Puck, but Sam didn't think Quinn knew if Puck was worth it all.

Sam never labeled himself, but it didn't stop others from labeling him.

Nice guys finished last and sure, it pissed him off that he'd always been fair minded when he could be. Even Stevens, fair and square and all that crap. But it was stupid to fight the way you were—the center of what made you tick. There was progress in acceptance, something it took him a long and hard time for him to realize.

There were a ton of things Sam could and couldn't do. He'd fight for Quinn, if she let him. Stay by her, be _with_ her until she made her decision—hopefully chose him. And yeah, step aside, if that's what it came down to. Sam knew how to bow out gracefully.

Of course he did. He was a nice guy.

* * *

"Look, you better care for Quinn better than your color-treated hair, or there will be words."

Sam tried not to jump too high, he had his pride. But seriously, Kurt had some serious stealth moves.

It was lunch time and Sam was starving. He really just wanted to get his eat on, not talk to Kurt about Quinn. The locker meet ups were starting to become a pattern.

But yeah. Sam frowned, played back Kurt's words. "So…you aren't going to tell me she's Puck's girl, again?"

"Ugh," Kurt shook his head, grimaced. Sam bit the inside of his cheek to hold off the smile. "I swear," Kurt continued, disgust rolling off his pink tongue, "I didn't mean it in some kind of chauvinistic way. It's like we're still in the Stone Age. But no, I'm not. You made good points before."

"It's good to have your endorsement," Sam deadpanned, watched Kurt's eyes narrow, the pink spots appear on his cheeks, "but I want to hit the lunch lines before all the chili-cheese fries are gone."

"I know you don't think it's my place to say anything good or bad," Kurt said as he trailed behind Sam, as usual. "But Quinn went through hell last year, and we just want to make sure she doesn't go through it again."

Sam stopped walking, and Kurt stepped around and faced him, legs steady, hands nervous as they gripped his satchel strap tight on his shoulder. Sam tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. "What, so you got elected as the Glee club's spokesperson to ask me about my intentions toward Quinn?"

Kurt lifted his head high, got that superior mask on his face he was known for. "As a matter of fact, yes. But I would have volunteered," he said, like he was King among peons. Sam could admire that about Kurt. It took a special kind of person to keep their dignity when faced with the constant threat of slushies. "We're concerned for her."

Sam blinked, shocked. "But wait, are you saying you guys think _Puck's_ a better guy for Quinn?" he shifted on his feet, a little insulted as he stared at Kurt's raised brow. "I know I'm still kinda new around here, but didn't he cheat on her?" Quinn hadn't actually said much about last year, but he'd heard about it. Gossip at McKinley moved faster than porno mags exchanged hands at his last school.

Kurt pressed his lips into a thin line. "True, but Puck is a nice guy, deep, deep…_deep_ down, and there's potential for real good in him," Kurt said, losing the impartial voice, the corners of his mouth losing some of the hard edge.

Sam sighed. He could kiss those fries goodbye. But this needed to be said. "I'm not saying Puck isn't a great guy when you get down to it, but have any of you guys considered Quinn may not want a work-in-progress? That maybe she needs someone stable and drama-free?"

"Oh," Kurt scoffed, rolled his eyes, _hard_. "Are you the perfect guy?"

Sam couldn't help but laugh at Kurt's disdain. "_Hell no_," he said, shook his head. "I've got my issues, but my concern is for Quinn and that's it. I'm not perfect, but I'll be anything she needs."

Kurt stared at him so long, Sam seriously thought the heat in his own face would burn the school down.

"Wow," Kurt said after an eternity, blinking at him. "I had no idea there was someone so intuitive under that mop of processed hair."

It took him a minute, but Sam laughed, blushed a little harder. "I'm not a genius, but I get by."

Kurt looked at him a little longer, their conversation dying in its tracks as Kurt inspected Sam from head to toe. Kurt nodded to himself, looking like he'd come to some sort of decision, and stepped out of Sam's way with little flourish. "I'll report back my findings to the club. But I've got to be honest, your lack of any kind of flaws is kind of scary."

Damn, not _this_ again. He got it everywhere he went. "Dude, I have flaws just like everybody else."

Kurt's eyes sparked and Sam knew he'd been had.

Fucking ninjas.

Kurt wasn't there to compliment him, he was talking to Sam for fact-finding, for dirt on him.

"Name one flaw," Kurt said, mouth twitching almost gleefully (har har).

Oh, he had one. Sam took a breath, chest tight. "I flip my shit when people treat me like they know me."

Kurt flinched, but Sam didn't think it was because of what he said. More like surprise, hopefully. He tilted his head at Sam, eyes sharp. "You didn't mention your dyslexia," he said casually, quietly. "I assumed—"

"It's not a flaw," Sam said, firm.

"I know that," Kurt said taking a half step closer to Sam, his free hand outstretched, placating. "It's a part of you, I know, and—I'm just surprised."

"What people see as a flaw, or a condition or whatever, doesn't define me," Sam said, and did his best to keep his anger in check.

Of all the people Sam thought would stereotype him as some kind of disabled freak, Kurt was the last person he thought would do it. It kinda hurt.

Sam headed to the cafeteria, thought of other options for food instead of Kurt letting him down. It—

"Sam, wait," Kurt said behind him.

He wasn't gonna lie, Sam kept on walking.

"_Sam_, please."

Sam sighed, turned on his heel, nearly crashed into Kurt. God, Kurt begging was not something he wanted to hear again. Sam clenched his fists at his sides, a tornado in his stomach. "Yeah?"

Kurt took several steps back, composed himself with a toss of his head; back to immaculate in thirty seconds or less. "I'm sorry, okay? And you should horde it like _gold_ because I don't apologize often."

Sam loosened his jaw and hands, but only a little. "Fine. Um, was there anything else you needed—"

"What _does_ define you?" Kurt asked; gaze tense and tight on Sam's face.

"Nothing," Sam replied. It didn't take any thought for that answer. He shrugged. "I'm just me, Sam Evans."

oOo

Puck was waiting in Quinn's driveway when Sam dropped her off after school.

Quinn stilled beside him, something she did without fail when Puck was around.

Sam wasn't stupid. He saw it coming.

"Sam, I…" Quinn turned to him, her heart in her eyes.

Too bad it wasn't for him. Sam nodded, bit down on his lip. "Yeah, I know. I hope he—" he grimaced. "I hope he doesn't fail you, again."

Quinn laughed, gave him a watery smile. "He better not, or I'll castrate him."

"Ouch," Sam said, kissed her on the cheek. "But I'll kick his ass. I don't want you to get your hands dirty."

Sam watched Quinn go to Puck, heart hurting as much as he thought it was going to. Which turned out to be a lot.

_Fuck._

oOo_  
_

Sam was drowning his sorrows in World of Warcraft when his cell phone played the _Star Wars_ theme. He let it go to voice mail while his Mage kicked ass on the screen. The phone rang again while he was scrambling to pick up loot after the raid, grabbing what he could and signing off with a quick goodbye to his friends.

Sam blinked at the number on the phone. He brought the phone to his ear, slow and confused. "Kurt, how did you get my—never mind," he rolled his eyes. That's right, _ninja_. "What can I do for you?"

Sam was about to hang up, the pause on the other end being so long. "You don't know what I was going to say and you've already agreed to it."

Sam laughed; It seemed all he did was surprise Kurt. "You've already promised you wouldn't go Shawshank on me. I figure we're good."

"Oh," said Kurt. Another longish pause. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I heard what happened—"

"Wow, that was _seriously_ fast," Sam said, glanced at the bedside clock. "We only broke up an hour ago. Whoever your sources are, they should work for the secret service."

"Oh please," Kurt huffed into the phone. "Like we'd settle for the White House. World domination has always been our goal."

Sam laughed and not too long after, Kurt joined in.

"Thanks for calling," Sam said once he'd sobered. "I'm happy for Quinn. And it's okay that the better man won."

"I don't know about that," came Kurt's quick reply. "But Quinn's mistake can be someone else's gain, you know?"

Sam felt his face flush and he chuckled, weirdly flattered. It turned out Kurt could throw him off his game, too. And not only that, the dude was right.

"Do you want to come over?" And yeah, the invitation was out of his mouth before he'd really thought about it. But whatever, he was okay with it.

"Yes," Kurt said, cool and confident. "I was going to invite myself over anyway."

"Straightforward. Nice, Kurt." Sam blinked, smiled, his mood lifting little by little. "Do you always get what you want?"

"Yes," Kurt said, no hesitation at _all_.

Sam laughed, flopped down on his bed, stared at the ceiling. "Good to know. I'll keep that in mind."

oOo

"Your walls make my eyes bleed."

Sam turned around, looked at Kurt as he stood in the doorway, mouth unhinged.

"What?" Sam asked, looking around his room. It was clean and there wasn't anything embarrassing—

"It's like a sci-fi convention met a grisly, bloody death in here."

So yeah, okay, Sam liked Star Wars. And Star Trek (the original series, baby!), and Battle Star Galactica. Supernatural, Sanctuary, Firefly, Avatar, and—

"Whatever," Sam said, stepping close enough to Kurt to bump his shoulder. "It's not like your room doesn't look like haute couture designers threw up in yours."

Kurt glared at him, lifted his head. "I—" he blinked slowly, nose crinkled. "You know what haute couture is?"

"Sure," Sam said as he sprawled out on his bed, flushed a little as Kurt took in his display from the door. "I'm not the dumb jock you think I am." And it wasn't like Kurt needed to know his mom forced him to watch Project Runway with her when his dad was away on business. It was good research… or something.

"I know there's more to you," Kurt said as he came into the room and commandeered Sam's computer chair like he owned the place. "When you agreed to be my duet partner, I got my first clue."

Sam smiled at Kurt's earnest and nervous face, the way he totally didn't ask to sit down. "Um, thanks." He sat up a little, narrowed his eyes. "I just got the new Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Did you want to look at it with me?"

Priceless. Kurt's face was _priceless_.

Good thing his trashcan was at Kurt's feet 'cause Sam was sure Kurt was going to blow chunks any minute.

He couldn't hold it any longer; Sam laughed. "I'm just messin' with you, Kurt, _relax_."

He sat all the way up, and before Kurt could protest, he hooked his foot around the base of the rolling chair and dragged Kurt in front of him.

"No need to worry," he said as he placed his hands on Kurt's shoulders. "There are no slushies here."

Kurt was blushing pretty hard. Sam couldn't really blame him, though. The guy didn't seem like the touchy-feely type. And sometimes, Sam knew he could throw people off with the more, uh, handsey sides of his personality.

Sam watched Kurt swallow, take a breath. "Okay," Kurt said at length. "I can relax."

* * *

At McKinley, Sam and Kurt hanging out was some kind of _thing_.

Sam understood people, sure, but sometimes he wished he didn't.

There was no doubt in Sam's mind that he would ever replace Mercedes in Kurt's life, and he didn't want to. It—just, well, instead of Mercedes and Kurt being a duo, they kinda became a trio.

He still had football (and basketball try-outs in a few weeks) and stuff, still hung out with the team and did other stupid shit, but now he just included Kurt and Mercedes in his schedule.

He knew his behavior confused the hell out of the majority of the school. A varsity football player—off and on Quarterback, too—with a gay best friend and a soul sister? _Insane_. But really, Sam couldn't give a rat's ass about that noise. He lived in a weird non-space at McKinley High, neither completely popular or bottom of the food chain.

If Sam was honest with himself, he had to admit he liked the subspace he lived in. So yeah, whatever.

"Dude, you're totally ruining your rep. It's starting to get worse than your Glee club rep."

How Kurt could've been head-over-McQueens (as Kurt liked to say) for Finn Hudson was beyond Sam. Sure, Finn was a great guy—and his crazy ass girlfriend had her moments—but for a guy who was pretty much Kurt's step-brother, Finn was too fucking conscious of what the hell people said about him.

Kurt told Sam the whole crush/stalker mess that first night he came over to Sam's house, months ago. It was embarrassing for both Kurt and Finn, and Sam knew it cost Kurt a lot to tell him everything, the good and the bad. But even as Sam felt for Kurt and his cringe-worthy story of last year, he was proud of the guy for going the distance. The kid had brass ones.

But seriously, Kurt had shitty taste in guys.

"I didn't know I had a rep to start with," Sam said as he closed his locker and faced Finn. "And even if I did, it can't be that bad."

Sam would've given Finn's concerns more attention if the guy didn't flip-flop all the time. Was there, like, a football scholarship or gold or crack inside Rachel's junk that had Finn hooked? Whatever it was, it sure kept Finn chained and ready to do Berry's bidding. Or was Finn really looking out for him, this time?

Kurt declared Finn Hudson "brainless and quaint" last month, as he allowed Sam to watch the Florida/Florida State game in Sam's room and didn't complain about it. Sam refused to agree with him, because one, Finn meant well most times, and two, the game was on and Sam wasn't about to agree to something he wasn't sure he understood—divided by the game (FSU all the way!) and Kurt with his leg pressed against his companionably. Anyway, Kurt barely tolerated Finn anymore and Mercedes, in her wisdom, stayed out of that mess. Sam was finding it a little bit harder, though. But being _that_ guy, he gave Hudson the benefit of the doubt.

Sam looked at Finn, really looked at him. Big Man was twitchy as hell, that was for sure. Couldn't go ten seconds without looking over Sam's shoulder or behind himself as he waited for Sam's reply.

Sam didn't know if Finn was brainless, but the guy was definitely whipped.

Sam sighed, thought about his newly organized locker. But then again, maybe Finn wasn't so much whipped as eager to please?

_Right._

"Dude, everyone thinks you're gay," Finn hissed at him, "and that you're Kurt's boyfriend."

Sam blinked at Finn, did his best not to sigh in Finn's face—or laugh. "Uh, I'm not gay."

"Exactly," Finn said, nodding enthusiastically. "That's what I've been saying for weeks. But even my super Quarterback powers and popularity points aren't keeping the rumors down. You're gotta do something too."

"What do you think I should do?" Sam asked, mostly just to see what Finn would say. There was no telling what would come out of his mouth.

"Go out on some dates with chicks," Finn suggested with a smile.

Sam nodded, eyes drifting behind Finn as a familiar face peeked out from behind the lockers across the hall.

"I don't think dating chicks will change anything. I mean, the rumors will stick as long as I'm with Kurt and Mercedes," Sam said, distracted as the head popped out a second time, "Uh, Finn, I think your girlfriend's stalking you."

"Again?" Finn said, looking over his shoulder. "Man, if I didn't love her and appreciate her small boobs, I'd be pissed."

Her cover blown, Sam watched Rachel haul ass to Finn's side. "I know I promised," she said, hand out, placating, "but I can't always depend on you to follow our plans to specifications."

Rachel and Finn had totally tried to trick him (badly) and manipulate him, but Sam was finding it hard to be pissed. God, wait till Kurt and Mercedes heard about this. "So, the rumors aren't true?" he asked instead of laughing; figured if he held it in, it would make the experience so much richer when he shared it with Mercedes and Kurt.

"Oh, they're completely true," Rachel said, quick, Finn nodding along with her. "Finn and I have our concerns."

"Concerns?" Sam said, raised a brow. "Concerns about me?"

"Of course!" Rachel said, but Finn got shifty again. "Uh—"

"_Okay_." Rachel huffed. "We're worried over our star power."

Sam bit his lip, thought of dead puppies. "Star power?" he managed, resisting the urge to turn and leave.

"We're concerned that having more than one power couple at McKinley could really cut down on our appeal," Rachel said, zealous. "And even if your popularity—"

"Your man love with Kurt popularity," Finn cut in, smiling sheepishly.

"It might put a dent in our influence at this school, influence that could be beneficial to the Glee club, unlike the popularity you have now," Rachel frowned. "What you have now is more a sick fascination from the more homophobic side of the school. They'd soil your love, Sam," Rachel finished, sorta. "You don't want your love to be soiled, do you?" she added, a weird pleading look on her face.

"Soiled love is bad," Finn said, looking kinda sad, or something. "And dirty."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, solemn and wondering if he'd died and gone to some type of third level of hell. "Soiled love is dirty." Holy shit, this was unreal. Sam swiped his nose, stopped himself from pinching his cheeks to see if he was dreaming. "Look, I'll think on you guy's words and get back to you, okay?"

Finn and Rachel nodded, the gleam of a mission accomplished shining in their eyes.

Sam left them at his locker, confused, but most of all, laughing.

oOo

"Rachel and Finn are afraid of our combined star power," Sam said as he took a seat beside Kurt and plopped his plate of chili-cheese fries on the table.

"Star power?" Mercedes said across from Sam, face twisted in confusion and disbelief.

Sam smirked. "I know, right? That's what I said. But I guess the whole school believes me and Kurt are dating," he said, poking one of the fries with his spork.

Surprisingly, the laughs didn't come. Sam looked up, caught Mercedes and Kurt doing their freaky telepathy thing. "What?"

"Nothing," Kurt said as—"You don't care if you're called gay?" Mercedes asked, incredulous as she shook her cup of half finished soda.

"No," Sam said, slow, easy. "Am I supposed to?"

"People think you're gay," Kurt said, and whoa, he was pissed.

Sam blinked at Kurt's red face, his flashing eyes, confused. "Kurt, if I did anything to—"

"You're a freaking Quarterback more times than not," Kurt said as he speared the lettuce in his Caesar salad like the lettuce had mixed stripes with plaid. "You should care."

"You don't care what other people think," Sam pointed out, frowned at his plate. "Why do I have to?"

"You used to care," Kurt said, quiet but firm. "Didn't it take Finn to convince you to join the Glee club in the first place? Didn't you just want to fit in?"

Sam shifted in his chair, ashamed. His first days at McKinley weren't his finest. "I shouldn't have been scared before," he said, eventually. "And you know what doesn't matter though?"

Sam watched Kurt look at him from the corner of his eye, felt Mercedes' stare. "_Kurt_."

Kurt sighed and looked at him. "What? What doesn't matter?"

"The rest of the school," Sam said, shifting until he and Kurt were nose to nose. "The whole freaking world. The only opinions that matter are sitting at this table, okay?"

Kurt tried not to smile, but he didn't fool Sam. The guy was probably at his most comfortable when he was grumpy, but Sam thought his smile wasn't so bad to look at either. "Okay, dude?"

"Fine," Kurt muttered and turned back to his salad. "Let's hope we push Rachel and Finn off their knockoff pedestal."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

2.

The Fall Dance was a little under a month away when Sam got the bright idea.

It was a typical Saturday night at the Hummel (-Hudson, almost) household, a movie marathon to finish off the week. The movie night used to be on Fridays, but since Sam's inclusion, Mercedes and Kurt were nice enough to move it to Saturdays because of all his (and Kurt's Cheerio) commitments—football, now basketball: Captain of the team, Bitches.

Anyway, Mercedes went to get more popcorn (it was really Sam's turn, but with Mr. Hummel was still giving him the crazy eye—and holding the shotgun tighter—whenever Sam had a turn) and Sam snatched his opportunity.

"You know what Mercedes is missing in her life?" Sam said as he turned to Kurt, throwing his arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing the nape of Kurt's neck.

"An Armani experience?" Kurt answered, attention on the TV, his face the picture of revulsion as Chekov put the Ceti eel in his ear.

Sam rolled his eyes, turned a little more on the couch, left leg folded on the cushion. "A date for the dance," he said, pressing his bent knee against Kurt's thigh. "Better yet, a _boyfriend_."

_That_ got Kurt's attention. Sam tried not to smile too smugly, but it was a near thing.

"How can we help Mercedes?" Kurt asked, brow raised, eyes curious. "I know I'm perfect for the job, but we're two unattached males—" Kurt got that weird intense look on his face that Sam swore the guy saved for special occasions. "We _are_ two unattached males, right?"

For the most part. Sam blinked at Kurt, tilted his head. "Um, do you want to share something with the class—"

"No prospects," Kurt said and laughed loud, face red. "I'm as unattached as I can be."

"Huh." Sam nodded, cautious. "Anyway, we know Mercedes best, attached or not, so who better than us to do the matchmaking?"

"Well," Kurt drawled, mimicked Sam and tilted his head, "I could think of a few people—"

"Whatever," Sam said, pressing his leg against Kurt's again. "Stop playing Devil's advocate. You know we're the best. You'll win over the special guy with your prickly charm and ninja skills, and I'll throw in a few impressions. We'll be golden."

Kurt laughed, shook his head. "I'm only humoring your crazy because I want Mercedes to be happy."

Sam grinned, tapped his index finger against the back of Kurt's neck. "That's a great reason to humor me. I'm a funny guy." He paused, waited for Kurt to laugh.

Kurt groaned, covered his face. "Sweetie, no. Just—_no_, that's not funny."

"What's not funny about that?" Sam asked. "Get it? Humor you—funny _me_?"

No matter how much Kurt threatened to disown him, Sam knew Kurt liked his jokes. What's not to like?

* * *

Finding Mercedes a date turned out to be easy.

Kurt had been laying in wait (like a ninja, of course) for the perfect opportunity to hook Mercedes up. The guy just needed a reason. Sam liked to think his prodding and general whining (Kurt's words) contributed to Kurt making his move. And that was the only true story, no matter what Kurt said.

But yeah, that Matt guy had been crushing on Mercedes since the third grade, but the dude wasn't much of a talker. His family moved to the next town over, from the looks of things, but because of district rules, Matt had to switch schools. Bean, was the name of the town. The founders of Lima and Bean had to have some kind of creepy produce kink, pronunciations aside…not that Sam saw anything wrong with that.

The dreaded outfit hunt started about two weeks before the dance—for Mercedes and Matt's "before the dance" date. Clothes shopping was not Sam's thing, and usually he opted out (he had practice, or a raid on World of Warcraft—or needed to watch mold grow), but Mercedes asked him to come with. Because, unlike Kurt, Sam believed life wasn't a runway and sometimes casual clothes should be, you know, _casual_.

"How does this look?" Mercedes asked as she came out of the dressing stall. She worried her lower lip, tugged a little on the purple top…frilly thing she wore, crossing and uncrossing her bare feet, the dark blue jeans hugging her legs.

"I like," Sam said, a smile taking over his face. "It's soft and pretty. Like you."

Mercedes ducked her head, the uncertainty leaving her like mist. She stood straighter, lifted her head. "That's what I thought. Nothing too fancy, I don't want to scare him away, but casual, classy."

"Gorgeous," Kurt said beside Sam as sat on the bench across from Mercedes' dressing room. "Seriously, with the right accessories and a pair of killer boots, Matt won't know what hit him."

Mercedes laughed, threw her head back a little. "I don't want to knock his ass over, Kurt. I want to astound him," she said, mischief in her voice and smile.

"Dazzle him," Sam agreed, wiggling his fingers in Kurt's face. "He needs to be conscious for their date."

Kurt huffed, swatting Sam's hands out of his face. "He'll wake up," he said as Mercedes rolled her eyes and went back into the dressing room. "Not that I know anything about it, but you should always blow the guy away on the first date."

Sam chuckled, leaned his head against the wall behind them. "Is that what you'd do on your first date?"

Yeah, he knew Kurt wasn't exactly an aficionado on dating, but Sam figured he'd do alright, whenever he got around to finding someone else.

"Of course," Kurt answered easily, folding his arms across his chest and looking at the ceiling. "You should always put your best foot forward. There's nothing wrong with letting the guy know you're interested."

"Isn't there?" Sam replied, his hands knotting in his lap as he looked at Kurt askance. "Sometimes, um, subtlety is good. You don't want to scare the guy off, or give the impression that you're crazy. I mean, wasn't that the deal with Rachel and Finn?"

Sam turned his gaze to the carpet under their feet, fully aware of the surprised expression doing an overhaul on Kurt's face. "Yes," Kurt said slowly, softly. "But even with the flaws in her plan, Rachel still got Finn. She won."

"People aren't toys you fight over," Sam said to the floor. "Rachel took a huge risk, Kurt. The whole thing could've blown up in her face as easily as it was successful. I mean, I know that whole thing was a mess, what with the Quinn and baby thing, and Puck and all that drama, but what Rachel did—going after Finn in such a big way— probably didn't help the situation."

"And you think my involvement in it, _my liking Finn_, didn't help either," Kurt said, words quick and angry. "You think I shouldn't have tried to get Finn too, right?"

"What?" Sam sat up, stared at Kurt's flushed cheeks and hard eyes. "No, you had every right as Rachel to go after Finn, but that didn't make your, uh, _actions_ okay."

"Seriously?" Kurt said as he straightened as well, glared at Sam. "You weren't even there, Sam. You've only heard about what happened—"

"I think you wasted your time on Finn," Sam said, keeping his anger under control. What good would it do to yell at Kurt? The kid would think what he would think. "I think—even though I wasn't here for that—you could do better than him. _I think_ if you want someone to take you seriously, you've gotta slow your roll when it comes to relationships. _I think_ you should let a guy do some of the wooing, sometimes."

Kurt's face folded in fury, his finger in Sam's face. "How _dare_ you—" Kurt's mouth clamped shut with a nasty looking _clack_, and he blinked. "Excuse me?"

Sam shrugged, leaned against the wall again, eyes on Mercedes' suspiciously quiet dressing room. "You're dateable, Kurt, but you're not exactly approachable," he said.

"You think I'm dateable?" Kurt said, and frowned at his finger, lowered it into his lap. "Of course I'm dateable."

Sam laughed, kinda wary. "Why wouldn't you be? But it wouldn't hurt to be less…intense about things."

"I've been very approachable lately," Kurt said, tilted his head, giving Sam one of those looks—the detective one. "Very. You have _no idea_ how much I've been holding back."

Nah, Sam had an idea. He wasn't going to tell Kurt that. He nodded, lips firmly closed. "You were pretty awesome about the duet thing. Now, you just need to be like that about everyone."

Kurt's mouth fell open, his eyes blinking a like a malfunctioning robot. "Do you _go_ to our school? I've been tossed in the dumpster enough, thanks."

"I'm not talking about taking leaps and bounds, man," Sam said, and chuckled at Kurt's exasperated face. "Little steps work, too."

"Little steps," Kurt repeated, his eyes narrowed, a smile fighting for space on his face. "I don't know why I'm listening to you in the first place."

"Sure you do," Sam said, shrugging as he heard the lock on Mercedes' dressing room fall back. "You know I care about you."

"I think the last outfit was a winner," Mercedes said as she came out of the dressing room, the purple shirt and jeans folded over her forearm, a dopey smile on her face. "Ready to go?"

Sam stood and returned Mercedes' dopey smile with one of his own, enjoying her happiness. "You know I am. But do I have to carry your purse? Because I think that's Matt's job now."

"Oh, please." Mercedes slapped Sam's shoulder lightly as she walked past, and giggled. "You keep trying my last nerve and you _will_ be carrying your jaw with my purse."

"I'm not promising anything," Kurt said beside Sam once there was a few feet between them and Mercedes, "but I'll give what you said some thought."

Sam smiled, brushed his shoulders with Kurt's. "Cool."

oOo

The shopping nightmare done, Sam drove himself home, left Kurt to deal with all the makeup and styling or whatever.

Sam didn't feel lonely often. There was always shit to occupy him, most times. But when he was driving home, he couldn't be distracted. He kept his mind as blank as he could until he made it home.

His dad was back from Indonesia, but Sam wasn't feeling family time; his fingers itched, something they did when he tried to think of nothing for so long.

He was in his room, sitting on his bed and had the guitar in hand before he knew it, the song that'd tried to take him over on the ride home rolling over him.

He tuned the guitar a half step down, the B-flat set free under his fingers as he strummed the rest of the chord progression quietly, sadly. "I believe in clean breaks," he sang, "I keep the old troubles away."

He didn't miss Quinn. Kurt didn't give Sam time to. And besides, Puck looked like he was trying.

"But you're making sure I was lying when I said," he continued, his fingers switching over the strings, pick sure and true. "I can't leave this behind."

Sam was happy for Quinn, _so_ happy. It was the right decision to let her go all those months ago. It was plain to anyone that Puck was the right guy for her. And it was the nice guy thing to do.

Sam strummed a little harder. "I need you to ruin me, for this finally, 'cause it's burying me," he sang, voice picking up strength.

There wasn't really anything to miss about Quinn. They didn't date for long; just the extent of Puck's time in juvie, a few weeks afterward. Nothing lasting.

But still, it hurt even now, not being what someone wanted. Even if he didn't want Quinn, either.

"Now, I'm in these old knots, each move keeps me locked away," he belted, filling his room with sound, sure the open door would carry his voice through the hall and downstairs to his parents.

Yeah, he totally didn't care.

It really worked out that Kurt had been the person to talk to about Quinn. Sam doubted he'd have been so alright with losing out on his chance with her. Yeah, he was the Quarterback off and on, the Basketball team Captain, but he doubted he would've made any best friends out of the jocks. And there definitely wasn't anyone like Kurt.

"With each new embrace, I have tied myself up," he sang, his ears perking to the echo of the front door opening and closing downstairs, "more tightly into you."

Sam closed his eyes. "Oh, but the more I fight, then the deeper I'm trapped. And I can't break free of this hold that you have," he grinned through the lyrics, remembered Kurt's face when he first set in Sam's room. "And I crave you more, under the heat of your touch. And I need your skin to ruin me, for this wicked town, where your ghosts are bound to me."

He could hear footsteps making their way up the stairs. Sam strummed softer, opened his eyes, and looked at the door. "One last sacrifice, of this ritual escape," he sang, voice dropping as the footsteps came ever closer to the end of the long hall and his bedroom. "I was lying when I said, I believe in clean breaks.

"You didn't stay with Mercedes?" Sam asked as he continued to strum Dashboard's _Clean Breaks_ refrain lazily.

"I've had the myriad of possible accessories picked out for weeks now," Kurt said as he stomped his way into Sam's room, a frown on his face. "We just needed the perfect outfit."

"Oh," Sam said, for lack of anything else to say, and scooted further up the bed. "Um, that's good."

"I don't have a date for the dance," Kurt bemoaned as he perched beside Sam, shot Sam a glare. "Did it ever occur to you that I might need one, too?"

Sam clutched his guitar a little tighter, palms sweaty. "No, because I always thought we'd go together," he said, and watched Kurt clutch the bedspread. "But…if you want a real date, feel free to get one."

"Fine." Kurt turned his head away from Sam. "That was a nice song," he said to the _Star Wars_ posters on the walls, blasé. A little too blasé.

Sam quirked his brows, swallowed. "Uh, thanks—"

"I don't understand you sometimes," Kurt said and looked at Sam, the ends of his mouth turned down. "Scratch that, I _never_ understand you."

"There's not much to understand." Sam looked down at his guitar, the pick cut into his right palm, the strings biting into his left. "What you see is what you get."

"No," Kurt whispered to the their shoes, hands still clutched tight to the sheets, "it really isn't."

oOo

"Evans."

Sam smiled at Mr. Hummel's frowning mouth and narrowed eyes. "Hi, Mr. Hummel. Um," he shifted on his feet as Mr. Hummel continued to glare at him and block him from entering the house. "Is Kurt almost ready?"

"My shotgun's still loaded," Mr. Hummel said as he stepped back, making just enough room for Sam to get past. "Just remember that."

Sam nodded, throat dry. "Uh, yes, sir. Is Kurt—"

"In his room," Mr. Hummel grumped, pointing his thumb behind him, scowled. "I'm setting the microwave for thirty minutes. If your narrow ass isn't back out here and decent when it beeps, I'm not giving you a head start."

Sam swallowed. What the hell? "Sir, Kurt and I aren't dating."

Mr. Hummel tilted his head, and for a second Sam thought the lights in the house dimmed. "Are you saying," Mr. Hummel drawled slow and dark, "that Kurt isn't good enough for you?"

Oh _shit_.

"No, I'm—_what_?—no, no. If anything, it's the other way around," Sam said, eyeing the shotgun propped against the back of the couch. _So_ the other way around. "I, um, just wanted you to know I have your son's best, uh, intentions at heart."

It took a minute, but Mr. Hummel nodded. All the lights in the house seemed to brighten. "Good. As long as you know you'll never be good enough for Kurt—"

"Dad, could you stop?" Kurt said, coming into the living room in a light grey suit with a blue shirt and dark blue tie, eyes already mid-roll. "The gun's not even loaded this time. The way you're acting, I'll never get a date."

"What's wrong with that?" Mr. Hummel asked, a small smile working on his face. "Last time I looked, you were eating mashed carrots and crawling—"

"Not this again," Kurt groaned and took Sam's arm, dragging him out of the room.

He wasn't gonna lie, Sam was surprised he'd made it out of the living room without bullet holes. But, he figured Mr. Hummel didn't want to shoot his own son, so Sam stocked it up as Kurt's great timing and Mr. Hummel's love for his son.

"No offense," Sam started once they'd made it to Kurt's room and Kurt released his arm and walked to the mirror. "But your dad is scary as hell."

"I know," Kurt said, looking at Sam through the mirror, and shrugged. "But I wouldn't want anyone else."

Sam couldn't disagree. His own dad was gone; in Amsterdam—or was it Tokyo this time? Whatever, the dude wouldn't be around until (after) Christmas, so what did it matter?

"Don't tell me," Kurt said, standing in front of Sam (he didn't remember seeing Kurt move), eyes to his neck region. "Your mom does all your ties, doesn't she?"

"Uh," Sam looked down at himself, at the two button dark grey suit and dark blue tie hanging from his white dress shirt, flustered. "No, my dad taught me how to do the different types, but I kept messing it up tonight from all the nerves."

"Nerves?" Kurt said, sounding a little breathless, a little surprised.

Sam watched Kurt's hands as he reached out and took the ends of the tie and started the ground work for a Pratt/Shelby knot. Kurt tugged on the tie after a moment of stilted silence, and Sam lifted his head.

"Nerves?" Kurt asked again, gaze intense and steady as he finished the knot at Sam's throat without looking. "What do you mean?" he continued, his hands skimming down the lapels of Sam's suit jacket.

Sam clenched his fists at his sides. "How did you get over here so fast? Are you sure you're not a ninja?"

Sam kept his thoughts as blank as possible as Kurt searched his face, eyebrows scrunched. Kurt sighed, a little of the light going out of his eyes. "All your talk about ninjas is starting to worry me," he said, shoulders drooped, weary. "I'm starting to develop a complex."

Sam laughed, over loud, his hands unclenching. "You're really light on your feet. I've never met anyone like you."

Kurt gave Sam his back, walked over to his mirror again. "You'll never meet anyone like me again," he threw over his shoulder, mouth tight, eyes solemn.

Sam swallowed, dropped his eyes. "I know."

* * *

Kurt liked Blaine.

Kurt _really_ liked Blaine.

Blaine was okay, Sam thought. The only thing that set Blaine apart from most everyone else Kurt knew was that the guy liked dicks exclusively.

Blaine didn't make Sam uncomfortable, far from it. But Sam did worry about Blaine a little.

If he could hate anyone, it was Blaine.

"Sam Evans," Blain said with a bland smile, offering Sam his hand. "Kurt's kept me pretty updated on you."

Sam glanced at Kurt beside him, surprised—and double-taked.

Kurt was blushing, and not only that, he was _fidgeting_.

What the actual fuck?

"Yeah?" Sam said, narrowing his eyes at Blaine's smirking face. "He didn't talk much about you," he said and squeezed Blaine's hand a little tighter.

It earned Sam a brow rise, but not much else. "Does he need to?" Blaine said, releasing Sam's hand a sharing a look with Kurt (it told Sam all he needed to know about how Blaine felt about Kurt). "I'm not important."

Sam didn't roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. Of course Blaine was important, the liar. But, if Blaine wanted to play the game, Sam would participate, for a while.

The whole Blaine thing was Sam's fault anyway. Ever since the Fall Dance—well, before it at Kurt's house—Kurt had…cooled toward him. He knew he'd let Kurt down (how many times was it now?), and even though they still went to the dance and had fun, there'd been more space between them.

At Sectionals (first place, haters!) Blaine nearly spilled his water on Kurt at a concession stand and the two of them were like Siamese twins now, or whatever. If Sam had been around when they'd met instead of jamming with the guys in the waiting area, the whole thing would have gone down a whole different way. Anyway, ever since, Kurt had been more than just unavailable, the guy was completely off the radar.

But yeah, none of that mattered, in the end.

Point was, Kurt was his best friend. Sam wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize that even if he wanted to. Plain and simple. And Blaine being around wasn't going to change that. Hell, Blaine could be Kurt's…_boyfriend_, if he wanted, and Sam would be totally cool with that. _Totally_. As long as he was still a big part of Kurt's life, obviously.

"If you're important to Kurt," Sam said, and shrugged, "then you're important to me."

"Thanks," Blaine said, smirk softening into a real smile. "That's a pretty mature way of looking at things."

Sam flushed and dropped his gaze, felt fourteen again. "Um, thanks."

"Blaine and I were going to run through some duets," Kurt said, giving Sam an odd look. Sam ignored it. "Did you want to stay and listen?"

Sam smiled, felt Blaine's eyes on him, heavy. "Sure, but I won't be able to add anything."

"Don't sell yourself short," Blaine said, walking behind Sam and patting his shoulder. "You've got a good voice, right? Why else would you be in Glee?"

"Well, our club's got good singers, but we're misfits first and foremost," Kurt said and frowned, glanced at Sam. "Never mind. I think we're a great club, considering. If we can just tear the song selections from Mr. Shue's overzealous fingers, maybe we'll have a chance at Nationals."

Blaine chuckled and pressed a few buttons on his MP3 player, attached it to Kurt's hub. Some show tune Sam didn't know filled Kurt's room, horns blazing, strings wailing. "I hear your Glee director is pretty open to suggestions," Blaine said, smiling at Kurt's hub. "I wouldn't be too worried if I were you."

Sam shared a look with Kurt, felt his lips tug into a grin. They laughed together. "I think you might be right," Sam said, smiling at Blaine begrudgingly. "But he'd probably get too enthusiastic about it."

Blaine's brown eyes sparked as he returned Sam's grin. "Enthusiasm can never be a bad thing," he said and blanched.

Sam's throat closed, felt his blood run cold. "Right," he managed, embarrassed and pissed. "I've gotta go…be anywhere else but here."

"Sam, wait," Blaine said, face red, eyes large. "I—"

"No thanks," Sam said as he hauled ass to the staircase. He was _so_ over all that shit.

"Sam?" Kurt said, behind him. "_Sam_."

Sam whipped around at the base of the stairs, Kurt hot on his hells, as always. "Sorry, Kurt. I'm, uh. I've got homework I forgot—"

"What was all that about?" Kurt whispered at him, arms hugging his torso as Blaine conveniently turned up the volume on the stereo, giving them his back.

"You don't really want me here, right?" Sam said, quiet, nervous. "And that's okay. Blaine's a nice guy and it's been weird for us, so—"

"You're not doing us any favors by leaving," Kurt said, and sighed. He bit his bottom lip, blinking up at Sam. "If you just want to hang out, just the two of us, I can ask Blaine to leave—"

"Don't," Sam said, placed his hands on Kurt's shoulders. "You're kidding, right? Blaine's, like, the first guy you've met who loves show tunes as much as you do. Don't ruin the chance to fanboy over Hammerstein or Moulin Rouge because of me."

Kurt snorted, leaned into Sam a little. "Fine, but I'm declaring now that we've got plans tomorrow at your place. We can watch Star Wars: Anger of Condor together."

Sam laughed, an ache in his chest lessoning, rolled his eyes. "It's Star _Trek_: _Wrath_ of _Khan_. Man, you've seen the move like eight times—"

"No, you've _tortured_ me eight times with that movie—"

"Whatever," Sam said, eyes to the ceiling. "Didn't you say just last week that you admired Ricardo Montalbán's makeup, and Nichelle Nichols, too?"

"_Fine_, but that's only because Khan's makeup was so shockingly eighties, and Uhura looked both subtle _and_ striking." Kurt waved his hand at Sam, dislodging Sam's light grip his shoulders. "Go and do whatever it is you do when you aren't basking in my presence and I'll call you tomorrow."

Sam didn't do much when he wasn't around Kurt, which was the problem, he figured. He wasn't about to tell Kurt that. Sam rolled his eyes, grinned. "It's called Fable III, Kurt. And it's _awesome_."

oOo

It wasn't midnight when the doorbell chimed.

Sam cut off the TV and walked on bare feet to the foyer as fast as he could. Mom was asleep and there wasn't any reason to wake her.

Besides, he knew who was at the door.

"How'd you find me?" Sam asked as soon as he opened the door.

"Wasn't hard," Blaine said, hands shoved in his standard issue Dalton grey slacks as he stood on the bottom of the marble steps, shrouded in darkness. "I looked for the biggest, most obnoxious house in town. Here I am."

"Here you are," Sam agreed, his hand tightening on the doorknob. "If that's all—"

"Aren't you going to let me in?" Blain said, climbing up the steps.

"No," Sam replied, his pulse jumping. "I don't want to."

"You don't think I remember how you get, but I do," Blaine said as he walked up the last step to the door, got in Sam's face. "Let me in, Sam, and tell me where your dad's been this month."

"Where's Dad _not_ been?" Sam mumbled, stepping back and letting Blaine pass. "Last time I talked to Mom, she mentioned he was somewhere in Chicago or London. It doesn't matter—"

"I wanted to apologize," Blaine said, brown eyes bright and sincere. "I shouldn't have—"

"Dude, save it," Sam said as he closed the front door and leaned against it. "The words you said are common and I know you didn't mean them that way."

"I know I could have handled our..." Blaine pressed his lips tight, shrugged, "friendship better. I was wrong for calling you enthusiastic back then—"

"You can stop anytime," Sam blurted, face warming, irritation rising. "Seriously."

"I freaked, okay?" Blaine continued like Sam knew he would. 'Cause no one told Blaine what to do. "I didn't think I'd see you again, you know? But here you are."

"Blaine," Sam said and stopped himself. He could never take Blaine on at his most honest. "Don't start this, okay? You shouldn't have come by. I'm not the same kid you met—"

"I lost sleep over you," Blaine said, voice tinged with anger as he pulled his hands out of his pockets. "I—I _missed_ you when you transferred, which to be honest, I didn't think I would." Blaine laughed, the sound harsh and unforgiving to Sam's ears as Blaine closed in on him.

Blaine's hands landed on Sam's collarbone, moved upward. "We're a clusterfuck, me and you, but I've never felt like this since. You've got to admit there's a connection, still a connection."

"That's not love." Sam replied, his breath hitching as Blaine stepped right into his space. He kept his fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach out like some kind of strung out druggie.

"Who said anything about love?" Blaine said and smiled against Sam's mouth. "Kiss me, or don't. Either way, prove me _wrong_, Sam."

Sam's lips met Blaine's of their own need, some kind of fucked up _thing_ that always made sure Sam reacted to Blaine, one way or another.

Sam hated Blaine like he hated any addiction, but still craving it against his better judgment. He didn't fool himself into believing whatever it was between them was love. Love was too complicated, despite what he or Blaine might like to think. No, all Sam needed to do was keep his dick in line when he was around Blaine, like he'd always done. Or, stay the hell away from the guy, like he'd been doing.

Blaine pressed him against the door, the wood digging into Sam's spine. Blaine's grip on Sam's face pinched his skin and Sam relented, reaching out and holding Blaine's waist as Blaine moaned. Sam opened his mouth wider as Blaine tightened his hold on Sam's face—

"You're not fighting me," Blaine said, slipping away from Sam like they'd never touched. Typical Blaine behavior for them. "You don't want this."

Duh.

But sometimes it took a little for Blaine to catch on. Sam shook his head, swiped at his throbbing mouth. "No, I don't." It was the last thing he wanted.

Blaine tugged at his blazer with shaking fingers, grimaced. "I don't understand. It's clear we still—" Blaine's eyebrows went a mile high. "_Ah_," he said, frowned. "But you two don't seem to have anything in common."

Sam shrugged, leaned his head against the door. "We don't either, but that didn't stop you from sticking your tongue down my throat."

Blaine grinned, but Sam didn't need to take a closer look to see how fucking fake it was. Blaine never did know how to cover his failures. "But we have chemistry."

Sam rolled his eyes, over that noise. "And you're saying me and Kurt don't?"

Blaine shoved his right hand in his pocket, didn't blink. "Kurt likes me."

Sam froze. "Yep," he said, eyes hooded as he regarded Blaine.

"And I want you," Blaine continued, eyes sweeping over Sam's frame. "I've always wanted you."

Sam swallowed, lifted his head off the door. "Man, you're never gonna fuck me."

Blaine's eyes flashed and Sam's pulse tripped. Blaine tilted his head, huffed a laugh. "You're going to have to give me a better explanation than just no."

Sam sighed, stared at Blaine's expectant face. "We're at our worst when we're together."

Blaine flinched like Sam knew he would. He stumbled backward a few steps, clearly trying to get away from Sam.

Sam didn't think there was a place far enough. The dude prided himself on being a positive example foe gay teens and acceptance. But Sam messed up his ideal world, and as long as he—Sam—was breathing and being the exception to Blaine's rule, they'd always be like this.

"Yeah," Blaine whispered almost absently to the ground, eyes somewhere else. "I know."

"An angry fuck is the last thing we need. We're better apart, you know that." Sam paused, chose his words carefully. "So, are you gonna leave this clusterfuck alone from now on?"

Blaine nodded, absent again. "He likes you," he said at length. "He likes me because I'm more like him than you are, and that's comforting. But he'll lose interest."

Sam licked his lips, looked at the ceiling, relieved. "Dude, I know."

"Oh, do you?" Blaine laughed, cheerful, bright, and best of all, real. "I don't remember you being such a coward."

"I'm not scared," Sam said, lowering his head and looking at Blaine's teasing face, smiled a little. "The last person Kurt needs is someone like me."

Blaine raised a brow. "I thought you'd be done with your Connecticut blue-blood angst by now. You disappoint, Sam," Blaine said and chuckled, shuffling closer to Sam. "You do like them when they're different."

True. But that wasn't what drew him to Kurt. The guy saw through all his bullshit, and no matter how different Kurt was from him, Sam would always be attracted to that part of Kurt.

Which probably went a long way in explaining what the hell his and Blaine's deal was, too. If he'd admit it to himself.

He wouldn't.

Sam pushed off the door, shoved his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants. "Yeah, but Kurt is really, _really_ different."

"And a challenge," Blaine added, regaining more of his lost ground, crowding closer to Sam, his movements having an entirely different purpose than before. "More than…Quinn, is it? Kurt's genuinely acerbic." Blaine smirked. "Not like your Quinn, who I hear is a sweetie under the cheerleading outfit."

Sam bit his lip to hold off his grin, gave up after a second. "Kurt's sweet, too," he said, looking Blaine in the eye. "Kinda like you, right?"

Sam saw the blush creep up on Blaine's cheeks under the moonlight. Blaine cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. "Yes, but he's got a little more bitterness than Ms. Quinn—or me, when I'm not around you."

Sam frowned, twisted his lips. "Kurt's not bitter, okay? He's just…_tart_." Yeah, tart worked.

Blaine's mouth fell open, and he blinked a few times at Sam. "Holy _shit_; really? _Really_? He means that much to you."

"You knew the me from over two years ago," Sam said, pointed an angry finger at Blaine. "I'm not the stupid bastard you knew anymore; I've changed."

"If you're not the stupid bastard from before, why haven't you gone after him?" Blaine hissed at him, returning Sam's finger with one of his own.

"He's my best friend," Sam said, blinking at Blaine's anger.

"And?" Blaine said, head tilted. "Best friends make the best lovers."

"I don't sleep with my friends," Sam replied by rote. It should've been obvious to Blaine. They certainly fit in the category. Though Sam was pretty sure he didn't sleep with Blaine out of some kind of self-preservation than friendship. Never being able to decide whether to be fucked by or fight a guy didn't sound too healthy.

"Why are you still so stubborn?" Blaine yanked at his short hair, grunted. "Sam—"

"This is _stupid_," Sam said, dragging his voice down in volume as it carried past the large foyer. "Why am I even talking to you about this?"

"Because you're not an idiot and you want me to talk you into making a move," Blaine said, and smiled, his hands falling out of his hair.

Sam scowled. "Ugh, not this psychobabble again—"

"He's waiting for you, but he's not going to wait forever," Blaine said, stepping close and placing his hands on Sam's shoulders.

"I know," Sam muttered, dipping his head. "But he needs someone who'll not screw him up after the breakup—"

Getting shaken up by Blaine was something Sam hoped to never repeat again.

"Please get over yourself," Blaine pleaded, his grip on Sam's shoulders loosening, finally. "I haven't known Kurt long, but I know he's strong. He can handle your weak angst and whining. The fact that he hasn't flayed you alive is a testament to his patience."

"My angst isn't weak," Sam said, rubbing his jaw—damn, his teeth hadn't clacked that hard since he got injured during the football game last season. "And I don't whine."

"Blah, blah. Go into the garage and cry in your mom's extra Bentley," Blaine said, stepping around Sam and opening the front door. "Take some advice, Sam. Get over yourself and let Kurt decide if you're worth his time."

"You're such a dick," Sam said, grinned. "But I'll think about it, okay?"

"Do better than that," Blaine said, halfway out the door. "Or I might decide to take advantage of my new relationship with Kurt."

"If you hurt him or touch him, I'll wear your head as my hat for Halloween," Sam said, and blinked. What the hell was _that_? "Um," he said, mouth twisted.

"How macabre," Blaine said, eyebrows wiggling and looking not even a little bit threatened. "See you, Samantha, when it's time to pick out your wedding dress."

Sam snorted. "Such a dick," he said, but Blaine was already out the door.

Sam took in the resounding silence, the heavy thud of his heart.

He grinned.

So yeah, Blaine had a point. What was happening between him and Kurt couldn't be ignored for much longer—not that ignoring it was working. Soon enough, Sam didn't think he'd be able to call Kurt a friend, let alone his best friend.

But Sam wasn't convinced about, well, about much anything. The situation between him and Blaine was the perfect example of what could go wrong. But at the same time, there were just some things Sam wouldn't be able to give; not to Kurt, not to anyone. And that would never change. But Blaine wasn't wrong (which was usually the case for Blaine, that bastard), Kurt should have a decision in what he would tolerate, and what he wouldn't.

Sam let his legs drag him to the living room, the grandfather clock there. It wasn't _too_ late, well; it was almost two-thirty, but—desperate times.

He wrote a note for his mom, left it on one of the kitchen islands. Mom was used to him going out at night, but not in Lima. Sam didn't think that would change, not if Mr. Hummel had his way.

And the guy _totally_ did.

A/N: This will be updated weekly, since I cam up against a continuity/characterization error. Most likely on Tuesdays. Thanks for reading, and I hope you continued to enjoy this.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

"Sam? Is that you?" Kurt asked, his voice deeper than Sam was used to hearing.

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's me."

He could hear Kurt move around on the other end of the phone. "It's almost three in the morning. Did something happen? Are you okay?"

Sam's right hand tightened on the steering wheel. Blaine's lips flashed through his mind, and before when heat seared through his body, now all Sam felt was cold and wrong. "Nothing life threatening. It's just—is it okay if I come over? Right now?" There was time to tell Kurt all about that other stuff later.

A pause. Sam looked out at the semi-familiar neighborhood around him, focused on the full moon instead of Kurt's kinda loud silence and indecision over the phone.

He didn't want to reveal what he wanted to tell Kurt. That would change Kurt's gut reaction and that was the last thing Sam wanted. He liked Kurt's gut instincts—and like Blaine, Kurt was rarely wrong. So, if Kurt didn't want to see him, Sam would turn the car around. Besides, what he had to say would keep. It wasn't like he couldn't tell Kurt the same stuff tomorrow.

Kurt sighed and Sam brought his rambling mind back from the night and to Kurt's voice.  
"How soon until you get here?" Kurt said, soft, wary.

Sam clamped down on his bottom lip, concerned his grin would break his face. "Ah," he said, slow. "I'm parked across the street from you house, behind a car that looks really familiar—"

"What?" Kurt screeched into the phone.

Sam grimaced, held the phone away from his ear a little. "I didn't want you to feel obligated."

Another pause. Kurt laughed like he couldn't help himself. "Idiot, You and your in-grown manners almost guarantee you a key to my house. I'll see you in a minute. I'm heading to the door now." And the dial-tone.

Sam scrambled out the car, tripping over a pebble in the road as he made his way to Kurt's house.

"You don't have any shoes," Kurt whispered to Sam's feet as soon as he came to a stop in front of Kurt's door.

"I, uh, didn't think about shoes," Sam said, because yeah, he hadn't thought about shoes. "I wanted to see you."

Kurt grabbed his wrist and dragged Sam inside the house. "Not so loud," Kurt whispered, placing a finger against Sam's mouth. "Do you want to get caught?"

Sam shook his head and Kurt lowered his hand. "Come on, I don't want to test our luck," Kurt said, leading Sam to his room, a death grip on Sam's wrist as they passed the living room.

"Now, what's happened that you're coming this late at night?" Kurt asked once they were safe in his room.

The only light was Kurt's bedside lamp; it shadowed the room, giving it a hazy, sleepy effect. Music played—Christina Aguilera? Sam wasn't sure other than the singer mentioning _I am_ a lot—adding to the atmosphere Kurt had created. Sam wasn't sure if it was Kurt's usual ritual—he'd avoided talking about beds with Kurt as a means of survival—or if it was a special occasion.

Kurt looked fuzzy. It was the best way Sam could put it. Kurt's eyes were sharp as ever, sure, but his hair was flat against his head, eyelashes really dark against his cheeks when he dipped his head, skin clear and pale in the half-light. His white and blue striped pajama pants and plain white t-shirt were basic for him, and, yeah, Kurt looked good when he flushed.

Sam smiled despite the nerves. It was cute, Kurt being rumpled. He felt kinda lucky to be seeing him so vulnerable. "I—" Sam pursed his lips, thought a bit. "Blaine came by my house tonight, and he, uh, gave me some advice."

"Blaine knows where your house is?" Kurt asked as he turned his back on Sam and crawled back into his bed. He sat against the headboard, patted the space beside him as if he thought it was a given Sam would join him. He wasn't wrong.

Sam climbed into the bed, mindful of his not too clean feet. He mirrored Kurt's position, his side pressed against Kurt's from shoulder to thigh.

"Blaine didn't know where I lived, but he knows me," Sam said, watching Kurt's face. "He came by—he came by for a lot of reasons, but we wound up talking about you."

"What about me?"

Kurt sounded nervous, and looked it. His eyes were on his lap, his fingers twisted in knots.

Sam sighed, reached out with his right hand, covered Kurt's fingers with his own. "That I should deal with what's going down between you and me." Sam took a breath, gathered his courage. "Kurt—"

"If you're going to let me down easy, you can save it," Kurt said, up and out of the bed before Sam registered what the hell happened. Kurt faced him, left arm akimbo, right hand pointed at Sam, face mottled. "If you think coming here tonight would save me the embarrassment of doing this at school—"

"No," Sam said, jettisoning himself off the duvet and to Kurt's side at the foot of the bed in seconds. "_No_, Kurt. I _like_ you."

"You can shove your shallow apologies up—" Kurt blinked. "Oh."

"But I still think we should stay friends," Sam said, wary. "I don't think we should risk it—"

"What if you're the one for me?" Kurt said, eyes flashing in the low light. "You won't even try?"

Sam didn't roll his eyes, he didn't. "Kurt, I can't be _it_ for you. Don't you think you deserve better than me? _I_ think you deserve better than me."

"What?" Kurt scowled. "Sam—"

"I'm bi, not gay. I'll _always_ like girls, like I'll always like guys." Sam watched the color drain further from Kurt's face. "I mean, can you deal with that? I'm a solid three on that Kinsey scale thing, so if this goes bad, you're gonna have to deal with probably seeing me with chicks as well as dudes." Sam bit his lip, tried to settle his nerves. He took in Kurt's shocked face, his trembling hands at his throat and chest, worried. "Kurt, you're my best friend. What if we're better off friends? What if I fuck it up? What if—"

"What if I've wanted you before we were friends?" Kurt uttered, eyes large and earnest. "I settled on friendship with you. I never got my hopes—I didn't think this could happen." Kurt stepped close, took Sam's hands, smiled a little, looking hopeful. "Sam, I've been treating you with kid gloves. I _never_ treat anyone with kid gloves. If that's not love, I don't know what is."

Sam felt the heat fill his face at the mention of that L word. "I know you've been really careful with me, and I appreciate it, but—"

"What are you afraid of?" Kurt asked, squeezing Sam's hands. "Really, because I don't think it's really all that you mentioned."

Sam laughed, got no joy out of it. "I'm afraid we'll be great together, you know? Afraid that you'll be right and you're my one and only, and then we'll fall apart."

"Sam," Kurt frowned, released Sam's hands and wrapped his arms around himself. "Why do you think we'd fail?"

That one was easy. Sam sighed. "Where do I start? I'm _me_ and you're _you_ and we're sixteen, and you've never done this before and we don't have plans to go to the same colleges, your dad wants to hunt me in the wild—"

"Whoa, slow down," Kurt said, his mouth working soundlessly for a few seconds. "Wow, I thought I'd be the high maintenance one."

"I—what?" Sam scrunched his nose. "I'm not—_not_ high maintenance, Kurt. I just have, uh, concerns," he said, shifting on his feet under Kurt's sharp perusal.

"Mm, I see that," Kurt said, nodding, the corners of his mouth turning up. "You're not worried about liking me and what it would do to your ego and popularity?"

Sam shook his head, thrown off. "Huh? Ah, no. Should I be?" he asked, wary.

"No." Kurt grinned, dipped his head. "So…let me get this straight. You think we'll be great together, but you're afraid of breaking up because you care so much about me."

"I don't know if I'd recover, um, right away," Sam said, eyeing Kurt's smile and the way he bounced on his feet, suspicious. "Or that I'd ever want to recover—_okay_," Sam glared at Kurt's grinning face and general, um, _glee_. "What's so good about what I'm telling you?"

"I never thought I'd be saying this to a member of the football team," Kurt said, stepping close again, gripping Sam's face in his hands. "But Sam, you're thinking too much."

Sam scowled, ignored how nice it was to have Kurt touch him. "But—"

"Sweetie, we haven't really held hands yet and you've already got our future mapped out and over," Kurt said, hands warm and gentle. "_Give it a rest_."

Leave it to Kurt to simplify everything.

Sam blinked, his frown turning upside down as easy as that. "Give it a rest?"

Kurt nodded, got that knowing and smug look on his face Sam loved so much. "I know that's saying a lot coming from me, but I think it's good advice in our case. What will be, will be."

"Would you like it better if I was dumber?" Sam asked, because he couldn't help himself.

Kurt rolled his eyes, lowered his hands to Sam's shoulders. "Don't give me that. It's just become incredibly clear to me that I'll be the one who steers this boat."

"You're realizing this now?" Sam said, deciding to give in and pull Kurt against him. "I've known you were in charge since the beginning." He smirked, lowered his head until he could nuzzle the side of Kurt's neck.

Kurt shivered against him, his fingers tightening on Sam's shoulders. It was all kinds of awesome. "Don't try my patience," Kurt said, voice a little higher than usual. "There's still time to run off with someone else."

Ah, _shit_. Sam flinched, his world darkening a little. No, things weren't awesome, they were totally _fucked_.

"I kissed Blaine."

"Son of a _bitch_," Kurt muttered, pulling out of Sam's arms and staring him down, eyes a little on the big side. "Well, that explains some things."

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, arms dropping uselessly to his sides, scared. "He does that."

"Do you make it a habit of ruining perfect moments?" Kurt said, glaring at him, hands on his waist.

"No," Sam said and shrugged. "But I'm used to avoiding them."

Kurt threw his hands up in the air, gave Sam his back. "Of _course_ you are." Kurt turned back around, face pale, eyes larger than before. "Wait, did Blaine _do_ something to you?"

"What?" Sam blinked. "Oh, _no_. He was—he didn't hurt me or anything. We just have a history."

Kurt lifted his head some, eyebrows raised. "History? Tell me _everything_ right now, Sam, or you can leave."

Sam shifted on his feet, forced himself to look Kurt in the eye. "I knew Blaine pretty well, um, before. We had— _have_—a shitload of issues."

Kurt's brows lifted higher, he licked his lips. Sam tried not to be distracted by that. "And?" Kurt asked, softly as all the anger left his face, expectant.

Sam sighed. Well, he knew he'd have to spit it out sooner or later. "Me and Blaine kinda hate each other," he said, took in Kurt's shocked face. "But we sorta dated, so we have history that way. I wouldn't call it a long term thing, but it ended kinda badly. I was too young, before."

Sam watched Kurt swallow, dip his head and hug himself. "You're not too young now," he whispered, lifting his head slowly and looking at Sam.

God, he hated it when Kurt got timid. Sam closed some of the distance between them. "No, I'm not," he said, rocking back on his heels. Just because he could be with Blaine didn't mean it was best. "But I like the person I am when I'm with you, and that's not how it is with Blaine at all."

The corners of Kurt's mouth turned down and he looked at Sam askance. "Excuse me?"

"Okay," Sam blurted, trying to get his thoughts in order. Explaining his dynamic with Blaine wasn't gonna be easy. So not easy, mostly because what was going on with him and Blaine was pure insanity. "You know how people believe in that perfect person?" he didn't wait for Kurt to nod. "Well, I don't. I think there are two types of people you can fall for. There's the type of person who'll make you happy, but you might have to work at heating up the relationship at first, but it lasts longer, maybe forever. And then there's the other type, the person you're passionate about, and there's a lot of fucking and mostly love, but they make your life a living hell, too."

Kurt blinked at him, jaw working. "And you think you and Blaine are the latter?"

"Exactly." Sam beamed, relieved. Another thing he loved about Kurt was his smarts.

"And we're the former?" Kurt said, and scowled. "You think we're passionless and bland?"

"What?" Sam squeaked and stepped into Kurt's space, took a step back at Kurt's glare. "Not at all. But I think things have been slower with us."

"I've wanted to move things faster since I met you," Kurt huffed, looking scary as hell even as he took a step closer to him.

Sam smothered his smile, his heart picking up speed. "I know you did, but I'm glad you didn't." And it was true. Things could have went a lot of ways with him and Kurt, but now that he'd seen where they'd started, what they'd become, he was cool with it. All of it.

"Because you think we would've burnt out quickly?" Kurt said, eyes searching his. "I don't think we would, even if are friends first."

Sam smiled, returned Kurt's gaze slow and easy. "Dude, you're my best friend. If you think I'm gonna regret our time together up to this point, you're crazier than I thought."

"I don't regret it either," Kurt rolled his eyes, his lips tipping up. He sighed, losing a little of the smile. "I need you to explain the bisexuality, Sam. Because I have to be honest, my gut tells me you're gay. Are you sure you're not?"

"That was one of mine and Blaine's problems. In the year he knew me, he was convinced I was just half out the closet." Sam took a breath, walked to the foot of Kurt's bed and took a seat, Kurt trailing and joining Sam on his right side. "I'm sure I'm bi. I know I give off a, uh, gay vibe more than a straight or bi one, but I know in my gut I'm bi. And other than that, I know I don't look at people and relationships the same way as most people."

Kurt frowned at him, and Sam knew what Kurt was gonna say before he opened his mouth. "Most people are a little bi, Sam. Maybe you're higher up on the Kinsey scale than you think."

Sam shook his head. "I know it's weird for people to get, but I know I'm bi. It's like…I don't look at gender, right? All I see is parts of a person I like."

One look at Kurt and Sam knew he'd lost the guy. Sam licked his lips, thought harder. "Okay, when I first met Quinn, I liked her eyes, and later I loved the way her hair felt under my fingers." He glanced at Kurt, nervous. "I think your skin is flawless, and you're gorgeous when you blush."

Like clockwork, the pink spots appeared on Kurt's cheeks and no amount of head ducking was gonna cover it up. Sam grinned, brushed his shoulder against Kurt's. "Like that."

"As you were saying," Kurt said with a superior glance Sam's way, and cleared his throat.

Sam chuckled, did as he was told. "Anyway, as lame as it sounds, I go for personality next. If the person I like isn't evil or whatever, I'm pretty much hooked. Through all that, the last thing I'm thinking about is whether they're a chick or a dude."

Kurt clucked beside him, face hidden by shadows as he looked at his bedroom instead of Sam. "That still doesn't mean you aren't primarily gay."

Sam nodded, conceding the point. "True, but when I'm interested in a girl, they always think I'm straight—Quinn was the first to question me _outright_—" Sam ignored Kurt's snort— "but when I'm into a guy, everyone swears I'm closeted. Man, it's the story of my life."

Kurt snorted again, gave Sam a disbelieving look. "But the rumors about you being gay have been around since you transferred. If we go by that logic, you've been interested in me from the start."

"Well," Sam said, looked at his hands gripping his knees. "You did introduce yourself to me before Quinn, and you kinda made me a mix tape, so."

"Oh," Kurt said faintly as he fidgeted beside Sam. "That's nice to know."

"Yeah," Sam said through a sigh. "I thought so, too. It must suck not to know everything."

He totally deserved the punch to the arm, but damn, did Kurt have to hit so hard? "Ow," Sam said, rubbing his bicep. "Are we cool now? Because dude, I thought you'd be pissed right now and it's confusing me that you aren't."

"Who said I wasn't mad?" Kurt frowned a little staring at Sam hard like he was trying to see into his head. Sam blinked at him, kept his brain free from any heavy thoughts in case they showed up on his face. Kurt sighed, his shoulders lowering. "It's only because of our friendship, and what you've been to me that you aren't gone right now. I know you say that you like me, but after what you told me about Blaine, what you told me about yourself, it's hard to hold on to that small happiness."

"Can I kiss you?" Sam blurted, scared, desperate. What if this was his last chance? What if Kurt—

"No, I don't think so." Kurt didn't move away, but his eyes were wild, his face flushed.

Fuck. "Oh," Sam muttered, looking at the carpet and doing his best not to be too depressed. "Okay."

A warm hand landed on his shoulder and Sam look up in time to catch Kurt's smile. "I need to sleep on all this. You've—things are different, and it's given me a lot to think about."

"Yeah, I get it," Sam said, holding on to Kurt's words and the little bit of hope they gave.  
Kurt sighed, his hand falling from Sam's shoulder. "Okay, then. We better get some rest."

Sam stilled, surprised. "You—you're okay with me staying here tonight?"

Kurt looked at him from under his lashes, a blush in full working order. "Do you want to leave?"

"No, _never_," Sam said, turned toward Kurt, his knee brushing Kurt's thigh on the bed. "I just thought you'd want to think about it—us—with me somewhere else."

"I'll be thinking about you anyway, so it doesn't matter if you're here or not," Kurt said with a gentle eye-roll, fingers fiddling with the comforter. "Besides, I get the impression that you'll sleep in your car, waiting for me. It's convenient to have you within reach."

"It's like you read my mind." Sam laughed, flushed and nodded. "But yeah, I'm all about convenience." He frowned. "I think."

Kurt laughed, his head thrown back like it was the funniest thing in the world—whatever it was that made Kurt laugh in the first place. "Sweetie, _no_. You're not convenient or easy." Kurt dabbed at his eye with his left index finger, shoulders still shaking. "Just—_no_."

"I'm simple." Sam stuck his tongue out at Kurt, who raised a brow at him as he scooted back further on the bed. "I mean, I'm not _simple_, simple," Sam continued, a little earnest. "But I'm not complicated."

Kurt snorted as he wiggled around until he freed the bedspread from under him. Sam forced his eyes to the ceiling, got up and walked to the head of Kurt's bed by memory. Kurt was wiggling too much, and if Sam wanted to be able to share Kurt's bed—_Christ_, half formed plans were the _worst_—he'd need to keep his eyeballs clear of any uh, unchaste Kurt images.

"I think I'll apologize ahead of time," Sam said once the wiggling (and the bed squeaking, _fuck_) stopped and Kurt had situated himself for sleep, he could look at Kurt again. "I'm a cuddler."

Kurt blinked up at him, hands folded primly over his chest and his head dead center on his fluffy pillow. "I don't know if I liked to be cuddled," he said, mouth twisted, brows furrowed.

"It's not that I mean to do it," Sam confessed as he climbed into the bed, thought of Mr. Hummel while he got comfortable and silenced the bed's squeaking, and didn't think about Kurt's red face. "It's involuntary, like breathing. When I was little, I used to think I was a twin." He turned on his side, rested his head on his arm, took in Kurt's soft eyes, what the shadows did to his features, tried not to blush too hard. "And we were like Luke and Princess Leia, and the reason why Dad was gone so much was because he had to look after her." Sam shrugged, embarrassed. "Sorry, I know I've got weird ass stories—"

"No," Kurt said, moving a little closer, their noses an inch or two apart. "I like hearing about your childhood."

Sam smiled, pushed his face into his arm a little, covering up his right eye. Geez, could he get more embarrassed? "Even the crazy ones?"

"Yes," Kurt said, simple, elegant. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Sam waited him out. "I don't have any experience with cuddling," Kurt said, opening his eyes, wary. "But there's no time like the present."

"Oh." Something clicked in Sam's brain, his eyes widened. "_Oh_. You want to cuddle now? I thought you wanted to wait to make a decision?"

"What?" Kurt said, mouth looking like it was having trouble staying closed. "_No_, I just meant when—_if_—you cuddled me involuntarily, I wouldn't knee you in the groin on purpose."

Sam swallowed, pulled his legs tighter to his body. "On purpose?"

"Or at all," Kurt said, giving him a kind of cautious, puzzled look. "Well, it's late."

"Right," Sam nodded, his body getting oddly heavy by Kurt's command like the guy flicked a switch inside him. He was so whipped and he and Kurt weren't even dating—yet, Sam hoped. "Night, Kurt."

Kurt smiled at him, lips strained, eyes shuttered. "Sleep well, Sam."

oOo

So, dreams did come true.

If Sam was right, and in situations like these he _totally_ was, Kurt's head was on his chest, arms wrapped tight around Sam like he was a full body pillow.

Sweet.

Sam grinned at the ceiling, wiggled his fingers only to feel his left hand at his side, his right in Kurt's hair. It got better. Seriously, his grin was gonna _break his face_.

"I can practically feel that goofy smile from here," Kurt muttered into Sam's chest, arms flexing around him. "And for the record, you dragged me against you. It was let you hold me or risk losing a limb. I made the prudent choice."

Sam nodded, adjusted his head until his chin rested atop Kurt's head. Kurt didn't object or move, so Sam kept his chin where it was. Who knew, it could be his last chance to be this close. "Sorry. I can get kinda aggressive about it sometimes. As least I didn't sleep walk to your house to cuddle—"

"Sleepwalk?" Kurt said, lifting his head and staring down at Sam. "You sleep walk?"

Sam shrugged, licked his lips as his hand slipped from Kurt's head and made a slow trail down until it rested at the small of Kurt's back. "Not on purpose. Only when I'm stressed, or, um, when I want sex."

"You didn't sleep drive here, did you?" Kurt said, frowning. "Is that possible?"

"It's possible," Sam said, focusing on Kurt's mouth. Kurt's breath was minty, somehow, and yeah…Sam wanted inside Kurt's mouth. "But it's never happened to me and I think I'd have to be pretty horny to sleep drive and sleep call you." He'd never been that horny before, but for Kurt, Sam figured he could manage it.

Kurt groaned, freed himself from Sam's arms and rolled onto his back, their legs still tangled. _Awesome_. "How could I have been so fooled into believing you were ever easy? You are _so_ complicated."

Sam pulled his arm free from under Kurt's back, sat up on his elbows and grinned at Kurt's dramatics. "But complicated can be fun, right? Like tantric sex."

And oh _fuck_—uh, _damn_.

Kurt stared at him, eyes flicking from Sam's face to his lower parts. "Are you horny right now?" he asked, face flushed.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip. Of course he was. But he and Kurt hadn't talked about what they were gonna be (it was looking good right now, but Kurt could just be the type that wasn't prickly in the morning) so what if saying yes was the wrong way to go? But, yeah…Sam took a breath, looked at Kurt dead on. "You're very touchable. I know you'd feel great under my hands. I want you to touch every inch of me." He dropped his eyes, fought back the blush with all his strength. "Okay? I hope that's uncomplicated enough."

Kurt cleared his throat and nodded, face looking as bland as ever. Sam smiled a little, not fooled. "That's—that's interesting," Kurt said, voice a little high. "But you haven't heard my decision."

"What's your decision?" Sam asked, chest tightening.

Kurt sat up, untangled his legs from Sam's and scooted backward until he leaned against the headboard. "I need more time. I need to process this, and one evening just isn't enough."

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, sitting up and situated himself next to Kurt, fighting back the panic and looked at his fingers in his lap. "Right. But Kurt—"

"You told me that my newest friend and the guy that I—" Kurt pressed his mouth closed, breathed through his nose. Sam's hands twisted themselves into knots as he waited for Kurt to get his shit together. Now was not the time to interrupt. As Sam stared at his fingers, Kurt's hands covered his, both strong and gently reassuring. "You and Blaine were involved," Kurt said, voice steady and low. "You told me that I deserve better than to chase after guys, that I should get chased for a change. For once, I'd like to be the object of someone's affection—the _only_ object."

"It wasn't that deep, me and Blaine. I promise." Sam looked up at Kurt, at his red rimmed eyes, his trembling lips. "And I've always wanted you. But after the duet competition and Quinn—"

"I forgave you for the Quinn situation before I knew you were bi," Kurt mumbled, squeezing Sam's hands. "But with Blaine—tell me how long it lasted, Sam, if it wasn't that deep? Because Blaine came to see you last night, he acted like he'd never known you when you were here last. He questioned me about you once you'd left yesterday. That doesn't sound like some random hookup."

"We weren't together that long," Sam said, his chest tightening. He didn't want to relive that time of his life, ever, if he could get away with it. It'd take a lot more than Kurt asking for that to happen. "We—_Kurt_, I swear Blaine and I are over."

"You kissed him, Sam. _Kissed him_." Kurt pulled his hands from Sam's, glared at him through the tears threatening to spill. "That's not the definition of over I'm familiar with."

"I'm sorry about what Blaine did, and I'm sorry about last night, okay?" Sam whispered, lifting his hand and pushing Kurt's hair off his forehead. "Blaine got the wrong idea about things, but now he gets it, so—"

"I find it really hard to believe it was _Blaine_ that got the wrong idea," Kurt said and moved away from Sam's hand. "He doesn't seem like the type to presume."

"Wait, what?" Sam dropped his hand, stared at Kurt as he replayed everything he'd said. "Do you think I was leading Blaine on?" Sam asked as the anger built in his chest, worked its way upward. "I know him a hell of a lot better than you, Kurt. And he got the wrong idea."

Kurt flinched, but Sam didn't back down. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't a tease, and he didn't mess around with people like they didn't matter. Hell, the whole issue with him and Blaine's drama and clusterfuck was because he cared about the guy. Things could have gone a lot smoother if Sam hadn't given a fuck; there would have been less broken hearts.

"You make it sound like Blaine's this, this reckless person, when all I see is a nice cheerful individual." Kurt looked at Sam, face scrunched, the tears fading. At least it looked like Kurt's anger was fading.

Sam sighed, took his chance to calm everything down. It seemed like he'd thrown Kurt off ling enough that he was willing to listen, something that was never an easy feat when dealing with Kurt. "I'm not saying Blaine isn't that, too. I think he's that way ninety percent of the time. It's the other ten percent—the ten percent of the time when he's around me—that he's different."

"I…" Kurt chewed on his bottom lip, tilted his head. "I don't understand."

Sam chuckled; he had to. It was either that or rage forever. "Half the time I don't get it either. It gives me headaches, so I don't think about it."

Kurt shook his head at the room, blinking like he couldn't figure out how to stop. Sam clenched his jaw, waited Kurt out. He didn't have a choice, did he? Kurt had always been the one in charge of where they stood, whether the guy would believe it or not.

"But you say you like me," Kurt said eventually, lips curled like he didn't quite believe Sam. "You say that you want to be with me."

"Yeah," Sam cleared his throat, stared into Kurt's eyes. "More than anything."

"But you _kissed_ him—"

"Look, things ended really bad for me and Blaine, and that kiss was more a goodbye than a hello, okay?" Sam hissed, fought raising his voice. This was so fucking horrible. Why'd he say anything in the first place? Oh, right; Because Kurt mattered to him. "I don't want Blaine. I don't want anything to do with him, and if he disappeared tomorrow, I'd be cool with that."

"You don't mean that, so don't say it," Kurt hissed back, face pale. "And you might be done with him, but you still have unpleasant emotions when you think about him."

"Yeah, I've got emotions about him. He's ruining any chance I had with you by just being around." Sam pulled his legs up to his chest, hugged his knees through the comforter. "I thought he was in my past, but here he is again, and it couldn't be at a worse time."

"Since when have you been so pessimistic?" Kurt asked, frowning at Sam. "You've changed in the last few days, and I don't know if I like it."

Sam rested his head on his knees, sighed as he looked at Kurt. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be this way, but this whole thing with us is kinda frustrating—"

"I get the feeling that you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Blaine," Kurt cut in with a fleeting smile. "And it _has_ been frustrating being around you, Sam. You're always _smiling_ and _touching_ and sometimes I think you're flirting with me, but then I say or do something and you shut down." Kurt's eyes hardened, his nose flared a little. "At least with Blaine I know where I stand. Like you've said, you don't want to risk ruining what we already have. That has nothing to do with Blaine."

Sam tensed, lifted his head. "Kurt—"

"I want to be with someone who wants me. Not someone who fights it, who's too scared to open up." Kurt leaned in, voice hushed, slow and clear. "The only reason you're approaching me now is because your Ex told you to, and you're afraid that you'll lose me if you don't do _something_."

"No, that's not it at all." Sam shook his head, heart twisting in his chest. "Fine, yeah, Blaine did suggest I come here, but it's because he knows how much I care about you now. And you're the only person I want, but I was scared—"

"What are you scared of? I know there's something else other than you're afraid we won't be friends if we broke up." Kurt peered at him, brows raised. "There's something you're not telling me."

Of course there was. But it wasn't something Kurt would get, not after he connected the dots. There wasn't much Kurt knew about him, but if Kurt was given any more information, Sam was sure whatever they had would be completely over. It didn't matter that the issue didn't have much relevance to Sam, but the chance that it could cause problems later on down the road was enough to give Sam doubt that he could have anything that easy or that good.

"I gotta go," Sam said as he climbed out of the bed, heart beating a mile a minute, jaw clenched so tight he feared he'd break it. He didn't think twice about opening up the basement window and crawling out. He'd done it before when Mr. Hummel's evil-eye was at its worst. It wasn't easy, but since when had anything been easy for him?

"Sam!" Kurt called behind him, tugged on his leg when he didn't respond. "What are you doing? Just _wait_, please."

Sam squirmed all the way out the window; the dew covered grass tickling his nose as he turned around and peered through the window at Kurt below while still on his stomach. "I can't do this right now. It's—_sorry_, Kurt. Sorry, but no. You don't know what you're asking." He got up and made his way to his car, ignored Kurt's voice, resigned.

Blaine was right, they were a clusterfuck. But the guy was also really wrong.

The clusterfuck had nothing to do with Blaine, and everything to do with Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Avoiding Kurt wasn't an easy task. It didn't help that the Glee club was flipping their shit over it. He hadn't talked to Kurt in twenty-four hours, not twenty-four years.

"Okay, tell us what happened or face the consequences," Mercedes said as she and Quinn (_what_?) strutted up to Sam's locker.

It was weird to see Mercedes and Quinn together, but Mercedes had mentioned she'd been friends with Quinn for a while, on and off. Sam knew Mercedes was there on Kurt's behalf, but what was Quinn's purpose?

"Uh," Sam said, closed his locker and kept his eyes on the girls, wary. If they wanted to talk, it couldn't be good for him. "Um—"

"We came here for both of you," Quinn said, gentle but firm, mouth upturned, eyes somber. "And we'd like to help, if we can."

Oh. Quinn was there for him.

"I screwed up royally," Sam muttered, heart having a riot in his chest as he watched Mercedes and Quinn's unsurprised faces. "I didn't tell Kurt I knew Blaine when I attended Dalton, or that we hooked up while I was there."

Who knew saying something plainly could get a non-plain reaction?

"Whoa," Quinn's eyes bulged a little; she looked at the floor and back at Sam, tongue in her cheek. "Does that mean—"

"I'm bi," Sam supplied, hoped the answer wouldn't piss her off too much. "I didn't say anything after being here a few days, and I don't advertise it anyway. I like to play things low key."

Quinn's nostrils flared, her hands went to her hips and Sam knew he was in for it. "You didn't want to _advertise_? You wanted to play things low—"

"This is a mess," Mercedes said, rolling her eyes. "I knew you were at least bi way back when, so this isn't news to me. No offense, but we don't have time for your old ass drama," she continued waving her hands in Quinn's face. Quinn glared at her, but Mercedes lowered her hands and blatantly ignored her. Mercedes was stronger than Sam, he knew. Had to be, because he'd seen Quinn's glare a few times when it was aimed at Puck, Finn or Rachel, and even at low level and not pointed in his direction, it made his knees knock.

"I know there's more to what you're saying." Mercedes cocked a hip, glared at him a bit. Sam swallowed, unnerved. "Kurt's been downloading Celine Dion songs in class and out, and hasn't said a word about it to me."

"It's not a big deal. Once we both cool our heads some more, we'll talk," Sam said. Yeah, there was more, but there was no way in hell he was gonna mention what that. But at least he got the sexuality thing out in the open.

As far as the bi thing, there weren't a lot of sorta-secrets he wanted to share. Liking dudes as well as girls wasn't something he was purposely trying to hide, but he could give Kurt some support against the bullies now.

"If we'd known about what was going on all along, you and Kurt wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place," Quinn said, the sides of her mouth pulled down, arms folded across her Cheerios uniform.

He was glad no one had known earlier about him and Kurt. It hadn't been that long since they talked anyway, and people sticking their noses into it would've made things worse. Sam shrugged. "Don't know, but I promise you guys I'll fix it when the time comes, okay? Give me a chance."

"You got five hours. Finn's party is tomorrow, and we all the drama taken care of before Friday night." Mercedes said, eyes concerned even as she pointed a figure at his chest and poked him twice. "Get it straightened out or we'll be all up in your business."

Sam knew about the party, heard about it around two weeks ago, but he was so wrapped up in Kurt's friendship with Blaine, he figured he'd do whatever Kurt wanted to do. But now with their fallout, going to the party (or not going, which would get tongues wagging) was a must.

"It's a deal." Sam grinned, did his best not to roll his eyes. It was too soon, and besides that, Mercedes had a killer right hook. It wasn't really her fault he needed to at least start to fix what was up with him and Kurt today for sure, or everyone would know about it instead of suspecting trouble. Sam resisted the urge to sigh.

"I'm glad we've reached an agreement," Quinn said, a little amusement and warmth showing through her eyes.

Sam nodded and walked backward, scared to give the girls his back. "Cool. I'll, uh, be going now."

He waited until Mercedes and Quinn dispersed, turned around and headed for English and the last class of the day, mind reeling.

Truth was, he didn't need another twenty-four hours to fix his and Kurt's problem. Not if he wanted to _really_ changed things for them.

Sam breezed through English—not _breezed_ breezed, but while he used his tricks to comprehend what the hell he was reading, the section not focused on his reading (it was a small part, but whatever, it was still awesome that he could multitask), made a list.

oOo

Kurt didn't exactly overt his gaze when he came in the choir room. Sam stared him down anyway. He and Mercedes left a seat open between them, deciding against being subtle with Kurt. Not that Mercedes would have let Sam be subtle in the first place.

"Hi." Sam smiled at Kurt as he sat down, felt the gazes of the Glee club all around him. Sam didn't think Mercedes or Quinn said what had happened between him and Kurt, but in the hour since he'd talked to them, everyone knew Sam had some making up to do.

Kurt looked at Sam, eyes a little watery, a little red. "Hello," he said slowly, as if Sam greeting him, let alone talking to him was far-fetched.

But whatever, Kurt being surprised they were talking was the least of Sam's problems. "There's some things you need to know," Sam said, rushed. Glee was gonna start soon and if he didn't take his chance now, he doubted he'd have the nerve later. "Can we talk after Glee?"

Kurt pressed his lips into a line, eyes slow to blink as he searched Sam's face. This time, Sam let one of his smallest secrets show through.

Kurt was gonna learn about it one way or another.

He wished he could say he was nervous about the coming conversation with Kurt, but Sam couldn't muster it. He couldn't afford to get nervous; it was out of the question.

"Sure," Kurt whispered, mouth doing that open/close thing Sam was totally fond of, face a little pale.

Sam swallowed, shoved that little secret back where it came from. He smiled, casual and happy, meaning it. "Sweet."

oOo

"Why did you look like you were…were depressed when you asked to talk?" Kurt asked as soon as the Choir room emptied. He frowned at Sam from by the piano, palms down on the dark surface, face shuttered, nervous.

Sam shuffled to the opposite side of the piano, closest to the right side door, mirroring Kurt's stance. "The Grandfather clock in the living room has been replaced fifteen times since we moved into the house."

There, he said it.

Sam looked at his hands as they fogged up the piano top, heart oddly steady, waiting.

"What does that mean?" Kurt asked, voice tinged with concern as it lowered whenever he was worried.

Sam lifted his head, looked at Kurt, calm as he'd ever been but getting nervous by the minute. "It means I don't want you to know Mom when Dad's around. It means I never want you to meet Dad."

Kurt's frown deepened as he walked around the piano and to Sam's side. Sam tried not to take comfort in Kurt's willingness to be closer, but it was tough. "Sam, what are you—" Kurt blinked at him, eyes widening. "Are you being abused?"

Sam didn't flinch because it wasn't true. It all depended on the way it was looked at, and for him, it'd never been remotely close to what actually happened. "No, nothing like that. Um—"

"Are your parents having problems with you being…" Kurt stepped closer, dipped his head and looked at Sam under his lashes. "Bisexual?" he asked, voice lowered.

Sam chuckled, took joy in Kurt trying to be discreet. "No, it's one of the few things he's okay—they're—okay with." If Mom and Dad had a problem with his sexuality, it might've actually made life simpler, as bad as it sounded.

"Then what is it?" Kurt murmured, zeroed in on Sam like he a beacon. "What's the problem?"

Shit. "It's, um," Sam chewed his bottom lip, mind not exactly going blank, but he was spacing out, that was for sure. Things were tough to explain. "I fucked Blaine up pretty bad. He hates me because I hated him first. We met at a really bad time, and…and we were each other's first time, I was his first _everything_."

"Huh." Kurt took a step back, looking at the piano, shoulders slumped. "Wow. How old were you?" he asked, eventually, voice crisp in the quiet, empty room as he returned his attention back to Sam.

"I was fourteen and he was fifteen," Sam said through clenched teeth, his hands balled into fists atop the piano. He looked at Kurt's neck instead of his face, watch Kurt's Adam's apple jump a few times, embarrassed, scared. "Blaine didn't—it wasn't his idea, he just reacted. We, uh, I was pretty messed up when I went to Dalton. I was fighting some things in the worst way and I got Blaine caught up in my mess."

"You're going to have to be more specific if you want me to understand. How is this all connected?" Kurt stepped closer again, took Sam's left wrist in hand, fingers hot as his thumb rubbed across Sam's pulse point. "What does that clock, your parents and Blaine factor into what you're trying to tell me? I swear, Sam, the more you tell me about yourself, the more I'm confused. What things are you dealing with?"

God, wasn't that the question of the year?

"I've been going to Boarding schools or Private schools all my life. I spent most of my time at one school in Connecticut, but I left for a little while." Sam pulled his wrist out of Kurt's grasp as gently as he could, ran his tongue over his teeth. He needed to get this out without Kurt touching him or this conversation would never end. "I couldn't stand being around um, that, anymore, so I transferred to Dalton—"

"But why?" Kurt asked, words clipped. "You said your parents didn't have a problem with your sexuality, and if you were fourteen, they either didn't know or—"

"Look," Sam fought against placing a hand on Kurt shoulder or his neck; it wouldn't help Kurt understand any better. "I can promise you that Blaine and I are over, _completely over_, because what I had with Blaine was exactly like my parents' except we weren't married and we never loved each other in the past. And yeah, Blaine doesn't enjoy making me feel bad, he just likes it when I don't take his shit."

Kurt's face cleared, but Sam was pretty sure it wasn't in a good way. "Are you saying your parent's are into bondage?"

Sam smirked at Kurt's pale, shocked face. "Sorta, but without all the safe words, gag balls, and um, happiness and respect. Mom's miserable when Dad's not around, and horrible when he is."

"And your dad?" Kurt asked color returning, but his breath wasn't all too steady from what Sam could tell. "How is he?"

"Dad…doesn't give a shit," Sam said, forced the smile he didn't feel. "Dad's got his own life, and he likes driving Mom crazy."

"And what about you?" Kurt mumbled, stepping closer until they were almost nose to nose, eyelids rimmed with tears.

Sam blinked, a little confused. He took a couple steps back, heart picking up speed, finally. "What about me?"

Kurt tilted his head, sighed at Sam like he was some kind of lost puppy he wanted to cuddle. "What does your dad think of you?"

"Oh." Sam clenched his teeth, gut twisting. "If he thought of me—he doesn't do it automatically, he's not wired that way—he'd be thinking about how he can't wait until I attach myself to some random dude or chick so he can stay around more often and him and Mom could go back to how things were before me." He shrugged. "Dad doesn't like me."

"Don't say that," Kurt said, firm, sounding like he was offended on Dad's behalf which was so _bizarre_, it gave Sam pause. "I'm sure he does care. He might not be good at expressing it—"

"No." Sam closed his eyes for a second, cleared his head. "He told me that. Well, he tells me that every time he's home, but yeah, he lets me know. Dad doesn't like to beat around the bush, and he definitely doesn't want me to have any illusions."

Sam was tempted to snap his fingers in front of Kurt's face, the dude was still for so long. "That, that's—" Kurt blinked, finally, mouth turned down. "_Horrendous_."

Sam shrugged again, giving his shoulders a workout. No use thinking about what Dad thought. Nothing was gonna change there. "It's not so bad. Dad hates being around me, so he's gone on business trips a lot—"

The _Star Wars_ theme rang into the air like a siren, the source of the noise coming from Sam's right front jeans pocket. He grimaced and fished his cell out.

"Don't answer that," Kurt blurted, actually making a move to grab Sam's cell.

Sam yanked his hand back, keeping the cell just out of reach. He narrowed his eyes and took a few steps away from Kurt and looked at the caller id.

Blaine.

"I didn't want to believe you hated him," Kurt said, words a blur as the cell continued to belt into the air. "I thought—"

"You thought I loved him," Sam finished for Kurt, pressing talk and bringing the phone to his ear. It made a sad sort of sense that Kurt thought he was still in love with Blaine. It figured.

"I'll be there in a little under fifteen minutes," Blaine said, talking to Sam like he used to, the way Sam wanted him to. "Whose house am I driving to?"

Dad was due in for a two day pit stop, so Sam's house was out. Blaine was almost in town, so there was no telling him to turn around and going back to Westerville. That left Finn's place—where the party was gonna happen tomorrow which meant Finn and his mom would be home, and this was _not_ going to be a public talk—or Kurt's house.

Sam looked at Kurt, took a gesture from Kurt's book and raised a brow at him. Kurt blinked, hand at his throat tightening minutely, but he nodded, eyelids fluttering. Sam didn't think Kurt knew what he was agreeing to—

Sam gave Kurt another gander, took in Kurt's reddening cheeks, his dipped head and lowered shoulders.

Maybe Kurt did know.

"See you at Kurt's," Sam said into the phone and hung up. Yep, things were going back to the usual with him and Blaine. That really sucked.

"You were going to get us back together, right?" Sam asked, but not really, he knew it just from Kurt's behavior alone. He'd figured out Kurt's tells a long time ago, not that they were very hard to figure out, not for him. He shoved his cell back into his pocket, went over to the Choir stands and grabbed his backpack, anger a slow burn.

"Yes."

Sam turned around, looked at Kurt as he stood by the piano, his bag on top of the instrument when it wasn't before, chin raised, eyes clear and bold.

Well, he hadn't expected Kurt to deny it, but geez, did Kurt really think he was going to rip him a new one?

Sam sighed, anger deflating. "You know I want to be with you and I care about you—" he looked at the floor, got his emotional shit together. He looked back at Kurt and in the time he'd gathered himself, Kurt had his bag on his shoulder, all the strength and boldness from before long gone. "You asked me the other night what I was scared of," he said, a little of the anger from before coming back. "But dude, why are _you_ scared?"

Kurt flinched as Sam watched, hand going to the strap of his bag and gripping it. "I'm not—"

"You've never lied to me, don't start now." Sam headed out the classroom, anger building into a fire.

"You've done worse," Kurt hissed behind him, catching up with Sam just as he made his way out to the parking lot. "I can't tell if you're lying to me or telling me the truth because you don't _say anything_."

"I'm not arguing with you over that. I know I haven't told you some things, but you're a better person than me, so I—"

"_Stop it_," Kurt snarled as they reached Sam's car, Kurt's SUV two spots to the right. Kurt grabbed his arm and whipped Sam around. By the look on Kurt's face, turning things physical surprised both of them. But Kurt didn't let that stop him for long; he released Sam, his brows evened out, the anger Sam heard in his voice previously still on his face, but it was losing to tears threatening to stream down his cheeks. "Why are you acting like this? You're all over the place and it's starting to scare me."

Sam shook his head,leaned against his car and folded his arms across his chest, backpack full of books digging into his back. He was hurt definitely, dejected, _guilty_, angry, confused—a lot of things. "I'm sorry, again. I didn't think I'd be seeing Blaine today. Plus, you didn't trust me when I said we were through, and I feel like I was setup. Kurt, I don't know of any more ways to tell you that I don't want Blaine. I only want you, okay?"

"I deserve to be the only one a guy wants, Sam," Kurt said, and sighed, licked his lips. "That hasn't changed."

"I _know_ and I wouldn't want that to change either," Sam said, his emotions leveling, his mind clearing of all the clutter but the reason he'd been so irritated in the first place. "But what does wanting to be a guy's one and only have to do with me and Blaine?"

"You deserve to be happy," Kurt supplied, like it was obvious. Sam wasn't fooled; he saw Kurt's eyes shift, so him fight against shuffling his feet. "And _especially_ after what you told me in the choir room—"

"Forget about me for a minute." Sam straightened, tilted his and looked at Kurt long enough for the guy to get shifty eyes again. "Dude, you're afraid of risking anything with me. And I get why you feel that way. I fucked up big time, but there's more to what you're doing." Sam narrowed his eyes, took in Kurt's flinch, his slowly paling face. "You said I needed Blaine to talk me into making a move, and you're right. But _you're_ using Blaine as an excuse to keep us apart."

"You're the one who left," Kurt bit out, still looking pale, but there was fire in his eyes. "You're the one who said you _can't_ do this, you're the one who thinks I'm not worth the risk. How dare you say this to me now, when all I'm doing is protecting my heart when you seem to do everything you can to break it."

Oh _shit_. "You're right, I did leave," Sam muttered, his heart beating to some dangerous levels. This was not how this was supposed to go down, not this soon at least. "But it's not because I didn't think you were worth the risk—"

"Don't," Kurt said through clenched teeth, eyes hard. "I saw your face when you looked down at me from the window. You'd closed down and it didn't matter what I said, you couldn't get away from me fast enough."

Yeah, it was true. So very fucking true. "I knew I'd destroy what we had if I told you that I wanted you." Sam looked at Kurt's chest, nervous. "As long as we were friends, you'd let me keep my secrets for a while longer, but as soon as I told you liked you…wanted more, the space you were giving me would fly out the window."

"If you'd told me about this—Blaine, you and your parents—it wouldn't have come to this," Kurt whispered back, not altogether pissed.

But that didn't matter. Sam lifted his head, met Kurt's eyes. "Tell me about your mom."

Kurt blanched, his mouth twisting. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered, shaking his head. "Why?"

"Because, if I could tell anyone about my life, it would be you and only you," Sam confessed, throat closing a little. He swallowed, shoulders feeling heavy with guilt. "But it's hard, okay? I've spent my whole life not saying _anything_, and now I'm supposed to spill it all. I feel cornered and pressured, and I know I'm losing you, I _know it_. I need—I need to tell you, but I also need you to let me give it to you in—"

"Little steps," Kurt said sounding both surprised and impressed, his face clearing, a small smile blooming on his lips. "Little steps instead of leaps and bounds."

"Yeah, little steps." Sam returned Kurt's smile tentatively, something tight and cold in his chest loosening. "I swear, Kurt, you'll hear everything, even the things you never wished you knew about me, but it'll take time. Do you think you've got it? The time?"

Kurt got really close to him, and Sam's heart sped up for entirely different and more pleasant reasons. Kurt canted his head, his smile just as tentative and new as Sam's felt. "I think we can work something out."

Sam stopped fighting his body and placed his left hand at the juncture of Kurt's neck and shoulder, reveled in the relief, excitement, _happiness_ he felt in the moment. "I'm going to tell you now. I'm a really bad negotiator," he said biting back his smile long enough to speak.

Kurt chuckled, eyes twinkling. Sam shivered for no real reason, fought and won the battle to keep his eyes open, afraid the moment would break if he looked away for even a moment. "I don't know, I think you've managed to get your way on a few things."

oOo

Sam gripped the steering wheel tight as he pulled in behind Kurt in the driveway, stressed despite sorta making things right with Kurt. He parked beside Blaine's car and tried to calm himself.

Cars weren't really allowed at Dalton, but juniors and seniors could have an "emergency vehicle" in case the in-house clinic or the faculty couldn't be reached in a timely matter. Sam wasn't at Dalton long, but he'd gotten enough scrapes and bruises from various sports to know that the clinic was the size of a wing in most city hospitals, and the faculty always ready for any and all problems.

Sam smirked at Blaine's "emergency vehicle". It was the 2011 Audi R8 Sam had been eyeing since he got the brochure in the mail two years ago, in silver, one of Blaine's favorite colors. He got out of his modest blue Prius (it was totally what he deserved for being more concerned about Mom flipping out about his safety instead of just getting the car he really wanted), more than a little jealous. Sam shook his head as he joined Kurt at his SUV, amused despite himself. He wouldn't put it past Blaine to have gotten the car solely to irritate him, since Blaine had been driving a Ford Focus not days ago. Sam was sure if he said as much to Kurt, he'd think Sam was crazy, but Sam knew Blaine and he knew him well. He was all the things people thought of him. Kind, sensible, confident and genuine; but there were traits to Blaine a lot of people didn't know about, sneaky was one of them.

"What are you smiling about?" Kurt asked as he climbed out of his car. He looked cute in his really big car, and Sam resisted the urge to kiss Kurt like he'd always wanted.

"It's nothing," Sam said instead, smiled. "Just Blaine being a bastard."

"I'm glad I'm not imagining it." Kurt walked around Sam, giving Blaine's car a cursory glance at best as Sam closed the SUV's door. "I didn't think that type of car was Blaine's style. He seemed to really like the Focus."

"I was there when Blaine's dad brought the Focus to Dalton," Sam said as they made their way to Kurt's front door, a shiver of unease passing through him as he saw Mr. Hummel's truck in the garage. He smiled anyway, the memory being one of the nicer ones from that lost year. "Blaine _hated_ it. His parents weren't about to give him an expensive car for his first ride, and he just needed a car to drive around Westerville on weekends after he got his license. I don't think he ever liked that car, but he tolerated it."

Sam slowed his pace as they reached the front door, and was glad of it. Kurt turned around, quick on his feet; head tilted as he got that intense look on his face Sam hadn't realized he'd missed. He was glad it was back.

"I came to a decision as I was driving over," Kurt declared with an air of finality, even though it sounded a hell of a lot like an opening.

Sam's smile widened, and he stepped just outside of Kurt's personal space. The significance of Kurt not making a big deal out of the story he'd told about him and Blaine wasn't lost on him."Uh oh, what government have you decided to take down, now? Just remember, I was devoted to you before you declared yourself overlord."

He bit back the snicker that wanted to free itself as Kurt blushed and raised his chin. "Please, Sam, I don't have time for the little people," he said, returning Sam's grin, if momentarily. "But no, I just wanted you to know that no matter what I learn about you, it doesn't change anything. I'm your friend first and forever, and anything else will be what it is."

That hadn't been what he'd expected Kurt to say, not at all. "I don't want you to make that kind of promise to me," Sam managed, palms sweaty as he did his best not to clench his hands. "I don't think I'm worth that kind of thing."

"Don't be stupid," Kurt muttered, looking unimpressed, eyes rolling. "I know I get pissed at you, and sometimes I want to shake some sense into you, but if you weren't worth the hassle I wouldn't have bothered in the first place."

Kurt opened the door to the house before he could get another word in, so typically Kurt that all Sam could do was laugh.

Blaine and Mr. Hummel were watching a game on the television, Blaine mid-chuckle when they entered the living room. Blaine stood when he saw them, Mr. Hummel frowning at him from his position on the couch.

"Sam," Mr. Hummel greeted, inclining his head, voice a growl.

Sam blinked, face warming as he looked around the room for rifles as discreetly as possible. "Um, hi, Mr. Hummel." There weren't any weapons that he could find._ None_. "How are you?"

"I've had better days, but things are looking up," Mr. Hummel muttered, sounding strangled.

Whoa.

"Is everything okay? When I arrived and you two weren't here and there wasn't a voice-mail, I was worried," Blaine said, the left side of his mouth tugging down.

Blaine was talking to him. And no, it didn't look like it on first glance as Blaine looked between him and Kurt, but he knew how Blaine operated.

"Everything's cool," Sam said and looked Blaine in the eye, clear, concise, _final_. "We just left a little late."

Blaine nodded, frown evening out into a bland smile, but Sam saw his eyes flash with something akin to approval—as close to approval as Blaine ever got with him. "That's good."

It wasn't until Kurt cleared his throat did Sam realize he'd been staring at Blaine, and that Blaine had been staring right back.

Well, fuck.

"Follow me, gentlemen," Kurt said with a toss of his head, though Sam didn't miss the crease between his eyebrows as he led Sam and Blaine to the basement.

"What did you say to him?" Sam blurted as soon as his feet hit the bottom step of the basement stairs. "He's never called me by my name before. It kinda freaked me out."

Both Kurt and Blaine turned to him when he spoke, Blaine at by Kurt's bed, Kurt by his mirror. Kurt's face scrunched up as he shook his head. "I didn't say more than the usual."

Sam cleared his throat, looked at his shoes. "Yeah, I know. I was talking to Blaine."

"I didn't say anything he didn't already know about you," Blaine said before any kind of awkwardness could settle in. "You're a good guy and his worry over what you'd do to Kurt is unfounded."

"Thanks for sticking up for me," Sam said for lack of anything better to say, even though he just_ knew_ Blaine would—

"No thanks needed, because now you owe me a favor." Blaine shoved his hands in his pockets, walked up to Sam, eyes and smile just shy of seductive. "Did you see my new car? I know it's new and all, but I'm sure it could use a cleaning."

Sam rolled his eyes, laughed. "You're such a dick."

"That's no longer an insult, coming from you," Blaine said brows raised, smirk in full effect. "Try harder."

Sam narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "I—"

Kurt cleared his throat. "I'm not impressed by these shenanigans," he said, arms folded over his chest as he walked up to Sam and Blaine, giving them both level looks.

"I really can't see how this is going to end well," Blaine said, regarding Sam with genuine concern warming his eyes. "I know it's our story to tell, and I know this would help in the long run, but—"

"It's okay," Sam said, lifting his hands and squeezing Blaine's shoulders. "It really can't get worse, dude."

Blaine snorted. "We could start fighting. That would be worse."

"It could be a good thing, maybe," Sam said, removing his hands from Blaine.

"How would it be good?" Kurt asked, eyes darting back and forth between them.

"I think you'd see once and for all that Blaine and I really do hate each other," Sam said, and shrugged to lessen the blow. "We don't do it on purpose—"

"I don't hate you," Blaine uttered, mouth twisted in a grimace, eyes only for Sam. "I've tried to hate you for a long time, but it never quite takes hold."

Sam sighed, stepped as close as he dared to Blaine. "It's not—"

"You ran."

That was nothing new, the running.

Sam flinched at Blaine's words, old feelings and older situations trying to control his response. He forced it all down, the anger, the frustration and sadness, saw past all of it. "Yeah, I did," he admitted, going for broke.

"You didn't tell me you were transferring." Blaine looked at him, cool, collected, though his eyes sparked hot. "I deserve an explanation. You _left_, Sam. You didn't give me a chance or choice to—"

"To _what_?" Sam asked, taking a step toward Blaine, thinking better of it and retreating, all too aware of Kurt's gob smacked face. "If I told you I was leaving, I would have _stayed_. I would have done anything you wanted."

"It was the same for me," Blaine said, and he took the step toward Sam couldn't, got right in Sam's face. He raised his hands towards Sam's face, fingers trembling. "I'd have done anything for you—_Jesus_, I'm here now, Sam. And it wasn't even you who called me. I hate that you do this to me, that I can't be happy when you're near, but believe me, Sam, I don't hate you."

"Maybe you should," Sam said and swallowed, didn't dare to look at anyone but Blaine. "It would make things easier."

Blaine snorted, lowered his hands with a quick glance at Kurt. "If you think me hating you would make things easier, then I never knew you."

Sam blinked at Blaine, brain trying to connect the dots. "But the things I did to you—we fought all the damn time, and I know I made you miserable—"

"Really, Sam, if you thought I was staying with you because you'd manipulated me into some kind of twisted game—" Blaine frowned at the staircase, quirked a brow and returned his gaze to Sam, a little smile on his face. "Well, you actually _did_ manipulate me, but I knew you were doing it. I _liked it_. It wasn't just you who was playing a game, we both were."

"I know that, but sometimes it felt like I was ruining you," Sam said, looking at Blaine from under his lashes. "You know I'm not lying."

"You're not. But I wouldn't say you ruined me," Blaine canted his head, narrowed his eyes at him. "Mm, I'd say you opened my eyes to a different way of thinking. You fuck like a champ, Sam."

"God, shut up." Sam laughed, blushed, both things coming naturally. "But, um, yeah. I'm sorry I blew you off."

Blaine smiled, but it looked the opposite of anything remotely cheerful. "I'm sorry you felt like you had to leave. I just wished you hadn't waited until we were going to have our real first date before moving. It's one thing to get stood up, it's another to get stood up and then told your date actually transferred and left the state just to get away from you."

"We weren't heading to a good place, and I couldn't—" Sam sighed, glanced at Kurt's pale and blank face. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to be like my parents and with you, it would be easy."

"I'll have to take your word for it," Blaine said, patting the side of Sam's face almost absently. "But you seem settled for now, if not happy. I knew I didn't love you the way you needed back then, but I'm glad you've found a better fit." He smiled at Kurt and Kurt glanced at Sam before smiling back, looking bewildered.

"He's all yours," Blaine said, putting a hand on Kurt's right shoulder, shaking him a bit. "And Kurt, I know he can be a handful, but you like projects."

"Dude, shut up," Sam said, rolling his eyes, fighting the smile that wanted to take over his face.

"Right," Blaine threw over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs. "I've got to head out. There's a recital tomorrow and I need to get in a few hours of sleep."

"That," Kurt said once the door to his room closed, "did not go as I expected."

"I pretty much told you everything you needed to know about us." Sam shrugged, walked over to Kurt's bed and sat down on the side he'd slept on. "Blaine didn't need to be here."

Kurt sighed in Sam's direction, crossed the room and joined him, their bodies pressed together. "We have so many problems," he bemoaned, throwing Sam an accusing look.

"Yeah, but at least we know it." Sam grinned at Kurt's pout, reached out and ran his thumb over Kurt's ear.

"I'm the one who called him," Kurt said quietly, hesitantly, shivering against Sam's touch. "But as soon as he saw you, no one else was in the room for him."

"It's the same for me most times," Sam admitted, equally quiet. "I ran away from him for a reason. We aren't doing it on purpose, it's just this thing that happens—"

"It's called animal magnetism," Kurt said with a wry twist of lips, eyes shining. "It was pretty intense being in the same room with you guys. When it started to get heated, I didn't know if you two were going to, to—"

"Fuck or fight," Sam supplied, returned Kurt's smile with a tired one of his own. "I don't like feeling that way. I mean, it feels pretty okay when you're in the middle of it, but mostly it makes me feel sick."

"So…did you and Blaine have a lot of sex?" Kurt asked, moving his head from under Sam's hand.

Sam blinked a few times, lowered his hand into his lap after it dangled in the air for a breath or two. "Yes. Like he said, it wasn't until right before I left that we were gonna have our first date." He shrugged, jostling his and Kurt's shoulders. "We were together for a year, but we barely talked. Blaine made me feel crazy and mindless, he helped me forget all my shitty issues from home, made me feel important whenever we had the chance. But at the same time, we didn't need to talk. It was weird—only something I ever saw with Mom and Dad—it was instant for us. I knew as soon as I met Blaine that he was basically a nice guy with bastard tendencies and for Blaine, he knew I was this stupid kid who didn't know what he wanted."

Kurt nudged Sam's shoulder, eyes roaming his face. "I get it," he said, sounding a little sad, a little wistful. "You both filled a need in each other, and it wasn't more complicated than that."

"I want to take things slow with you for a reason," Sam blurted, feeling like he was losing Kurt all over again. "When we have sex for the first time, I don't want it to be so mindless that I don't remember anything other than it was good. I want to get lost in you, but I want to remember you."

His admission was met with resounding silence, but Sam didn't care. Kurt wouldn't have to worry about him not speaking up again, now that he'd gotten started.

"_When_ we have sex?" Kurt said into the muted room, flushing red from ears to arms. "I thought you didn't think we could match what you and Blaine had?"

"I don't want what I had with him. I want whatever you'll give me," Sam said, urgent, a blush warming his face as well. "I know it sounds like I'm assuming we'll have sex, but I'm kinda a sure thing for you."

"Just for me?" Kurt asked, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted, the flush fading fast.

"Yeah, any time you want it. But I kinda want to date you first." He frowned, glancing at Kurt and away, tongue tucked in his cheek. "I love to fuck, but I do have _some_ respect."

Kurt laughed like Sam knew he would, cheeks going rosy again, eyes warm. "It's going to take some time to get used to you being so open."

"It's been easier than I thought it was going to be, saying stuff," Sam confessed, looking at his hands in his lap. "I hope it'll last."

"It's like you said," Kurt murmured, leaning into Sam's shoulder companionably. "Little steps; and eventually I'll know all about you."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam murmured into Kurt's hair, gave in to his wants and placed his arm around Kurt's shoulder.

"You said I should let a guy do some of the wooing, correct?" Kurt said after a bout of contented silence.

"Correct," Sam said, wary, nervous. He had a feeling he knew where Kurt was going with that train of thought, but he didn't want to hope too much, that was dangerous.

"With everything you've told me, and with the last few days—you and Blaine, the kiss, _your parents_—I think we should take things _very_ slow." Kurt elbowed him in the chest and he removed his arm from around Kurt reluctantly. "I think I'm going to take you up on that, the wooing." Kurt said, a shaky smile on his face.

"You are?" Sam said and grinned at Kurt's reddened cheeks. "So, what, you want me to pursue you?"

"I want you to court me," Kurt said, tossing his head, breezy and confident. "I want to be wined and dined—all the works. Do you think you can be the perfect suitor?"

Sam chuckled, lifted a hand and pushed Kurt's hair off his forehead. "Is that a challenge?"

Kurt clucked, pushed his head further into Sam's hand, eyes sly. "It's whatever you want it to be."

Challenge it is.

Sam smirked, rolled his eyes. "I don't know if I'll be the perfect suitor, but you'll be impressed."

oOo

A/N: Expect the chapters to get longer from here on out. Around 7-11 thousand words a piece, I'm guessing. The chapter number will stay 10, but I think I'll break the chapters into parts and link them when need be. You just hit the 26 thousand mark with me, and now, I'd going to estimate that this story will be around 40 thousand, for safe bets, though don't hold me to it! This story is growing and shrinking in turns as the characters grow and show me what they can do in the parameters I've set for them, so you never know. **I don't think I'll be posting next week, given the holiday.** I want to use the week to get my crap together and stop promising these chappies will be out on Tuesday when really, they've been coming out on Wednesdays. Also, if I postpone a week, I think the last chapter of this fic will be posted in February, and that'll mean I had something to obsess over for some of the hellatus, so yeah! lol See you soon and thanks again for all your encouragement, kind words and love for this story. I'm glad I'm not the only one enjoying it. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Sleep was something that just didn't happen when Dad was home.

Sure, Sam had ample reason for not sleeping tonight—all positive—low level stress caused by knowing Dad was somewhere in the house a constant buzz just under his skin, running rampant in the back of his head.

There was other stuff to think about, thankfully.

It was two-thirty in the morning and he still couldn't get the grin off his face. Kurt gave him the go ahead to pursue him and Sam had already taken the first step, the others still forming. It totally helped that they admitted they liked each other, another point in his court that could only be a good thing.

He got that with courting, it was supposed to be a "let's find out if it's worth it" nowadays, if it was done at all, or an intent toward a serious relationship. It wasn't about that for Sam, not exactly. Kurt deserved to be wanted, pined after. Not only because Kurt was freaking awesome and a person would be dumb not to see that, but also because it was Kurt's first time where a guy returned his feelings. That was a big deal, and it was Sam's responsibility to set the bar high—and higher and higher, if he was honest, so that no one would ever measure up, if he could help it.

The thing he'd had with Blaine was intense, and he wouldn't call it a relationship at all, but it was still more than Kurt had ever known. Dalton Academy was his lost year in more ways than one. His friends back home—well, except Danny—didn't know what he got himself stuck in and he wasn't sure he'd ever tell them. The guy he was when he left Connecticut was a lot less clean than the guy who returned a year later. But he didn't regret his move to McKinley and Ohio; would never regret it.

He could admit now, especially since Kurt still liked him after some of the things he'd learned, that meeting Kurt had started something. Sam didn't know what it all was yet, but it felt good, and right and _big_. Almost like he'd been—

There was a crash downstairs. It vibrated through the house, all the way up to Sam's second floor bedroom.

The Grandfather clock gonged erratically throughout the house, the sound muffled and retched, like the thing knew it wasn't supposed to sound at near three in the morning for so long but couldn't seem to help itself.

Low stress became high stress as Sam swallowed, his jaw aching from clenched teeth.

Another crash. The kitchen, by the sound of cabinets banging open and glass and china hitting tiled floor.

He couldn't hear any voices, but that wasn't new. The clock continued to gong, somehow sounding louder than when it did when it fell. But Sam figured that was his fear and stress talking. But one thing was sure, he'd be hearing that clock in his head for the next month.

Sam sighed, sat up and pushed the blankets off his legs. He put on the old blue t-shirt he kept by the bed, pulled on the socks stuffed in the steeled toed shoes he hid under his bed, put the shoes on, too. On his way to the door, he picked up Mom's guitar, the familiar frets digging into his hands like a cool comfort to his mind.

He didn't bother being quiet as he marched down the stairs. He could've stomped, screamed and cried and they wouldn't have heard. Sam detoured to the front room once he hit the bottom of the stairs, leaned Mom's guitar against the couch cushions of the tan couch closest to the front door, heart thudding. There was no telling what it was going to be this time, but it wasn't like they varied much from the script.

The lights weren't on in the room, but a strip of light from under the kitchen's door illuminated just in front of the clock. It was overturned again. Face down and blaring into the carpet, the gongs the clock made mirrored his irregular pulse, loud and horrible to his ears. Not that seeing or hearing it was all that important. It looked the same every time: broken.

Sam spent another second looking at the thing, but not much more than that. He had other shit to do. He walked over to the kitchen, steel toed shoes crunching large chunks of glass under foot. He paused just outside the kitchen's swinging doors, schooled his face into the usual expression he wore when Dad was home: mild indifference.

"Did you want me to take you on the floor, atop the mess you've made?" Dad said on the other side of the door, cool and inflectionless, like he was thinking about going to the gas station and picking up milk. "Did you want battle scars to remind you of our time together?"

Sam entered the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind him and swatting him on the backside.

Glass and china shards were everywhere. All the cabinets and drawers were open, all the breakable things (and not so breakable, like pots, pans, silverware and cleaning supplies) within Mom's reach (which was considerable, depending on her mood) were broken and on all available surfaces, from the counters and islands to the floor; _especially_ the floor.

Mom wasn't too far in front of him, maybe three feet or so and toward the center of the kitchen, her back to him, facing Dad. She was trembling all over, the forest green loose-fitting baby doll dress (he only knew what it was called 'cause an ex back in Connecticut liked to wear them whenever he was over and her parents weren't home; he got _real_ familiar with them) and matching robe shook right along with her; her black shoulder length hair was like a dense and tangled halo around her head.

"I—I," Mom croaked, alto voice sounding as real and as human as the Borg.

Sam stayed put, tracked Mom's arms as they trembled, saw why they did. There was a butcher knife in Mom's right hand, a large shard of what was left of a red dinner plate in the other. Her arms started to shake harder, her shoulders quaking as she gripped the weapons she'd never use with white knuckled hands.

He didn't need to see the look on Mom's face, he knew it well. She looked devoted, wrecked, and happy, she was sweating, probably had a smile a mile wide on her face as she fed off misery like a druggie.

He'd looked at Blaine the same way, once. It always made his stomach turn, after he'd got what he'd wanted.

Dad looked well, mostly. The sky blue dress shirt he wore was wrinkled, the maroon tie at his neck loosened a few inches, his black pants and loafers had flecks of china on them that clung like dandruff, his short light brown hair just as in disarray as Mom's.

"Speak freely." Dad tilted his head, eyes only for Mom as he leaned against the oven, probably using the only whole glass in the entire house to sip water. Dad didn't need booze to loosen his tongue and say things no one wanted to hear, he just opened his mouth.

Sam didn't need to hear any more. He closed the distance between him and Mom, got close enough to her that he was all she could see.

"Hey, Mom," he said, light and breezy, like it wasn't the middle of the goddamn night and pain wasn't making itself comfortable in the place he made most of his meals.

Mom didn't respond; he hadn't expected her to since Dad was still in the room. But she did try to focus on him, which was nice. Her eyes (his eyes, too) lost some of the spaced out look and skittered across his face. She smiled, a little happy, a lot distant. "Hi, Sam."

Sam returned her smile, his hands trailing down her arms as slowly and lightly as possible. He reached her hands and smiled wider, waited for her to return it, and tugged the shard and the knife out of her hands, the knife clattering loudly to the floor, the shard breaking again and splashing back bits of ceramic against his leg hard enough to sting. He placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezed them a little. "It's late."

Mom's smile got sharper, eyes dancing with a semblance of amusement, and if Sam didn't lie to himself, some indulgence. "It is. Did we wake you?"

He nodded, ducked his head and aimed for embarrassment, his stomach turning some more. "Yeah," he lied and shrugged.

"He's lying and you know it," Dad said behind him, his loafers (they were always loafers) crunching china and wine glasses as he walked, his voice sounding more like an observation than anything accusatory, but Sam wasn't stupid. Dad was livid.

"Sam would never do that," Mom said to Dad as he came to a stop beside them, voice just as devoid of real emotion as his or Dad's. The willful ignorance she seemed to hold onto when it came to Sam and all the lies he told her to keep her and Dad from getting too out of hand was working full force. She smiled—fake—at him. "He loves me."

He did. Sam loved both of them. He wondered how long it would last.

Dad chuckled, his wide mouth (Sam's mouth, too) twisted into something dark and cold, the first real thing the three of them had displayed since Sam came into the kitchen. "What does love mean to him? He doesn't understand it."

Sam didn't think Dad knew how to lie outright. Sometimes he wished he did. He sighed, licked his lips and lifted his head, looked at Dad. "Aren't you tired? You aren't home for long and it makes sense to get some rest."

"Why are you talking to me?" Dad said, glass to his lips, eyes flicking over him.

Sure, Dad's words hurt, but he'd never show it. Sam yawned, it was only a little forced. "I've got school tomorrow and a long night ahead of me. Can't you guys do this while I'm gone?"

Mom laughed and Sam pretended it was a happy noise. "We did, we were taking a break when you arrived home this afternoon."

"You'll regret him one day, Samantha," Dad said, words biting even as they were voiced with casual care. "Send him away again before it gets to be too late. You—"

"Andrew," Mom said, quiet but underlined with the first hints of true anger. "Don't bother."

Sam looked at Mom, rolled his eyes, smirking. He did his best to convey with just his face how stupid Dad's outburst were, even if once upon a time he agreed with them.

He appreciated Dad's gesture, but Dad was wrong. Mom would never regret him, he knew it down to his bones. Mom would never regret anything that caused Dad so much pain and irritation.

Dad left without another world, which surprised absolutely no one.

"I got your guitar," Sam said as he took Mom's hand and led her into the front room, ignoring the crunching sounds filling the silence.

"I'm in the mood for some Joni Mitchell," Mom said, voice warming by increments with every word.  
Sam snorted, not completely fake. "You're always in the mood for Joni Mitchell."

"Yes," Mom said as she sat down in the middle of the tan couch, next to her old guitar, eyes shining, an expectant smile on her face.

Sam left her there, went to the front door and flicked on one of the front room lights, just enough illumination to showcase the couches and little else. He kinda hated seeing Mom's face like it was, so he tended to avoid using more light than needed.

He picked up the guitar and sat beside Mom, their knees touching. He thought a minute, going through all the Joni Mitchell songs he knew (he knew all of them, Mom made sure of that), picked the best one for the night, but he'd be lying if he didn't admit it was a huge risk to play it, to even let the opening measure sing out.

Whatever. The night was already shot to hell anyway.

He forgot his pick, but finger-picking worked best for this song. He played the G major seven chord, playing the introduction, fingers intimate with the notes and tabs, palms sweaty.

"Born with the moon in Cancer," Mom sang, eyes boring into him, voice just loud enough to be heard over the guitar. "Choose her a name she will answer to. Call her Green and winter cannot fade her, call her Green, for the children who have made her. Little Green, be a gypsy dancer."

Mom's eyes flicked to the back hallway, where Dad probably waited in their room, the crows feet around her eyes softer than usual, longing in her gentle vibrato. "He went to California, hearing that everything's warmer there. So, you write him a letter, say 'Her eyes are blue,' he sends you a poem and she's lost to you. Little Green, he's a non-conformer."

Sam swallowed, dropped his eyes as he strummed the chorus, heart aching more than was good for anyone in the house.

"Just a Little Green, like the color when the spring is born. There will be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow," Mom sang voice rising a little higher, a little louder, sadness she rarely let out filling the space between her and the guitar (not to Sam, never him), giving him hope; hope—for things he didn't understand, but what always felt a lot like change. "Just a Little Green, like the nights when the Northern lights perform. There'll be icicles and birthday clothes and sometimes, there'll be sorrow."

A hand landed in his hair, and Sam looked up into Mom's face, throat closing, eyes burning. Mom ruffled his hair, eyes warm, cheeks flushed. "Child with a child pretending; weary of the lies you're sending home. So, you sign all the papers in the family name, you're said and you're sorry but you're not ashamed," she sang, voice reaching Sam with an emotion and look on her face Sam had never been able to place when he played Little Green for her and she sang along. He was always affected by the verse every time she crooned it, unable to break himself of the habit of caring for her, even when she didn't always care in return. Mom's hands shook in his hair, her grip tight but oddly comforting. "Little Green, have a happy ending."

Sam hadn't cried since Mom had played the song for the first time when he was six, and he wasn't going to change that.

He softened his picking, reacting to Mom without needing the cue anymore. He was always reacting to her, always on the defensive. He had to be, to live in this house and to live their lie.

This was the only time when things felt real at home—guitar in hand and Mom crooning for the love of it. It was some of the only times when he could be himself. Sam watched emotion—happiness, a little regret (he didn't know how he felt about that one), amusement flicker across Mom's face in the turn of her chin, the soft set of her mouth as he strummed the chorus again. "Just a Little Green, like the color when the spring is born. There'll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow. Just a Little Green, like the nights when the Northern lights perform. There'll be icicles and birthday clothes, and sometimes, there'll be sorrow."

Sam played the last few measures with ease, doing his best not to get his hopes up anymore than they were.

"You get better every time I hear you," Mom said, matter-of-fact, but she was smiling and it looked real.

"I learned from the best," he said and shrugged, ducking his head, this time meaning every movement, every moment. "I've had time to practice now that I can play at school with the Glee club and stuff."

"My school discouraged that sort of thing when I was growing up. Not that it stopped me from busking when I had the chance." Mom grinned, her hand slipping from Sam's hair and falling into her lap, smirk twisting her lips, eyes wicked under dark, shaped eyebrows. "Jesus, I couldn't wait to get out of high school and see the world. School was the last place I was going to learn anything."

Sam liked school. He _really_ liked school, and he had crazy goals for his life—goals most people didn't think mildly dyslexic people could reach—and he'd need school to get there, even if it was frustrating sometimes. It would all be worth it once he was staring down at Earth from orbit.

"Yeah, school sucks. I can't wait to get out of there," he said instead of the truth, glanced at his white knuckled grip on the guitar. Mom wasn't interested in what he had to say because even when he could be honest with Mom right then, it wasn't like she actually wanted to _hear_ it.

"When I was carrying you, I used to imagine we'd go on the road together and sing for our meals. You'd play while I sang, I'd play with you, on occasion. We'd be happy, _free_."

Another fantasy; Mom loved her fantasies. There was a time Sam thought the fantasies had a chance to be real, if he and Mom could manage to get away. But it was before he'd understood what the hell was happening around him, before he realized there was no point wishing for things he couldn't have with Mom.

His head knew that, anyway. Not his heart, so much.

"I love you," Sam said and hated himself for it. He clamped his mouth shut before he said anymore, shame rolling over him in waves. God, if he had a TARDIS right now, he'd go back in time and hold his mouth shut if he had to, anything to prevent him from saying those words in the first place.

Mom's smile hardened, and Sam watched as the what little warmth in her body shrank back to wherever the hell it went when Mom wasn't craving misery. She licked her lips, eyes blank again and Sam returned her stare, unable to see Mom's eyes as anything else but mirrors reflecting back at him, 'cause there was no way in hell she'd let anything touch her.

"_Really_. Your father is probably wondering where I am," she deadpanned, standing. "I shouldn't keep him waiting."

Dad never wondered where Mom after nights like these. He didn't have to, because it was the same thing every damn time with only the smallest change.

But whatever, Sam totally deserved her brush off. He knew better.

Sam clutched the guitar and stared at the floor as Mom left, no doubt meandering through a house too big for the three of them and sometimes too small, until she found Dad in his office or their bedroom, waiting.

He sighed, got up after he couldn't hear Mom's hard soled slippers crunching debris into the carpet, laid the guitar against the couch cushions like before. He crouched in front of the couch, balanced his left hand on the middle cushion while his right felt around underneath it, grunted as his fingers connected with the work gloves.

If there was anything Sam looked forward to in the short term, it was seeing Kurt every day. He liked to think he'd found a second home in Lima, Ohio, which made him laugh every time, since it was Mom who had come here first. But whatever, Lima—Kurt—made staying put and facing the demons worth it.

He righted the Grandfather clock first. It'd stopped gonging halfway through _Little Green_, probably fading off as fibers in the carpet clogged its gears. The longcase clock looked worse for wear, the mahogany veneers over the cherry wood in front were scuffed, the brass pendulum and pulley system clanging its dissonance right into his ears as it settled. The glass on the door and face of the clock was shattered and mostly on the floor around him. That wasn't unusual; Mom probably threw something at it, or kicked it before pushing it over while Dad watched with fire and want in his eyes. He plucked out the carpet fibers with careful fingers, the way Clive had taught him a few visits back. He put on the gloves and took out the larger shards of glass still left in the door panel and clock-face, getting it as clean and free of debris as possible. He stepped back, gave the clock a thorough once over. He needed to call Clive for the glass panels, but the order for another clock could be put on hold for now, he hoped. Clive would have to be the deciding factor.

He went to the hallway closet halfway to the other end of the house and Mom and Dad's room; grabbed the broom, dustpan and vacuum.

He tackled the back hallway first, using the vacuum to get all the bits of glass and china trampled into to carpet. There usually weren't any big pieces, but Sam kept an eye out just in case.

He didn't bother being quiet by Mom and Dad's room at the end of the hall, before the turn off that led to places in the house he rarely went. He could've bust down their door and threatened all kinds of horrible things and they wouldn't have noticed.

Back hallway done, Sam swept the carpet in the front room, making sure to get all the glass from the clock. He jogged through the house and made a quick stop at the garage for a few of the large heavy duty yard waste paper bags that worked pretty great for indoors, too. He used the dustpan to put all the glass in one of the bags, using his gloved hands for the pieces too big for the pan. He vacuumed every inch of the front room after that, twice, emptying the vacuum's dirt container three times into the waste bag. He didn't want to wear shoes around the house if he could get away with it.

Kurt filled his thoughts more than was probably healthy, not that Sam was overly familiar with what healthy should be. But he figured he didn't do too bad trying to be normal, otherwise Shaun, Danny or Chuck would have told him if he was freaking them out a long time ago. But then again, those guys were weird as fuck on their own rights, so there was no accounting for taste.

Anyway, Kurt's presence was at the forefront of Sam's mind most of the time, and usually he welcomed the distraction. But he always thought of Blaine during times like these. It was unavoidable; especially when the very thing he and Blaine could've become was broken at his feet or digging into his hands.

No, Blaine said he hadn't hated him, and that made Sam feel good, feel relieved. But it still didn't change anything. If he hadn't left Blaine high and dry, he would've earned the guys hate eventually. That was unavoidable, too.

He got to the kitchen next, picked his way through the mess of broken dinnerware, glass, bent silverware, pots and pans and to the walk-in pantry in a nook at the far corner of the over-large room. He grabbed one of dust masks he'd picked up at the local hardware store, hidden behind some russet potatoes, put it on. He didn't think any of the chemicals filling the air could kill him fast, but there were a lot of open bottles on the floor and the scent alone made him dizzy. He cleaned out the sinks first, cleared away the glass and ceramic, went back out to the front room and grabbed another bag, put the debris in there. He picked up the pots, pans and silverware strewn on the floor and counters like dead soldiers; piled them in the sinks. Got rid of the opened cleaning supplies and tossed them into the bag, gagging at the toxins in the air despite the mask, kept the few bottles not open. He swept the floor, the broom scraping the various shards against the tile, bristles soaked through with liquids. Once piled high, he mostly used his hands to put the mess into the paper bag, the bottom of the sack wet from all the liquid around it, almost filling the sack half way.

He swept the floor again, used the dustpan to get the fragments, folded the bag closed when he'd got all he could, made two trips to the trashcans in the garage and deposited both bags for garbage day.

He wiped down the counters twice with a disposable rag he'd tucked under the sink and away from prying eyes, caught the shards he'd missed. He removed his gloves, shoving them into the left back pocket of his jeans and tackled the pots, pans and silverware that was salvageable, grabbed a dishtowel from the pantry and dried all he'd washed, placing them either in the silverware drawer or in the cabinet by the oven where they belonged.

He put the vacuum, dust pan and damp broom back in the hallway closet, got the mop and bucket. With the few cleaning supplies left he filled the bucket with hot water and solution and mopped the floor pretty good, getting all the bits the broom missed. He emptied the bucket in the guest bathroom off the front room, his shoulders aching, sweating where the dust mask pressed against his skin.

He put the mop and bucket back in the closet, his mind's eye supplying him with an image of Kurt grinning at him during one of their many movie marathons. He grabbed the gloves from his back pocket, let himself smile a little as he replaced the gloves under the couch, his fingers twitching as he remembered touching Kurt's ear earlier, the skin warm from the blood just underneath the surface.

He glanced at the guitar as he stood on tired legs, smile falling off his face.

He felt blank, the short conversation with Mom coming to mind. Honestly, he felt kinda dead. Probably exactly how Mom wanted.

Sam climbed the stairs, feet dragging, arms like noodles as he put the guitar strap over his shoulder on the way up. He placed the guitar back against the wall by his door once he entered his room, half threw, half collapsed onto his bed. He kicked his shoes off, but only after the fact. He looked at the clock on his right bedside table, eyes dry and itchy. Five-thirty am. He blinked, yanked off the mask with shaky hands, tossed it in the waste bin by his bed.

Yeah, there was _no way_ he was going anywhere until he got a couple hours of sleep. He rolled onto his left side, folded his head under his arm and stared at his computer across the room. He rubbed at his eyelids with his right hand, the corners of his eyes burning. It was totally the spilled chemicals and nothing else. Not sadness, definitely not despair or anything like that.

Dad was right. Sam didn't know what love was, not by example, anyway.

He was learning what it meant, though. Yeah, he'd been younger, and stupid and cruel and selfish at Dalton Academy, but it'd taught him a few things about himself, once he was free of the place long enough to get perspective. Some of those things bad, some good.

When he was stressed or angry, he _still_ tried to run.

He was more fucked up than Dad.

He was more like Mom than he was ever gonna be like Dad, and he hated himself for it.

He didn't want what Mom and Dad had, and he was okay with that.

He could say no and mean it; he could say no to _Blaine_ and mean it.

He'd done the right thing, leaving Dalton behind, and maybe Kurt was right and he did love Blaine. Well, loved Blaine enough to break things off before it was too late.

Sam's mouth twitched, and he allowed the smile, chest feeling a little less cold.

He wasn't mean just to be mean anymore, and he liked to see people smile; liked to make people happy and feel good about themselves. That was partly Kurt's doing. The guy refused to let Sam get away with anything, especially now, pushing him toward a level of honesty he'd never really had before. He could be himself with Kurt, he could be normal and easy going, dumb and lighter.

He grabbed his Droid off the bedside table and rolled onto his back, fingers clumsy and sleep deprived as he opened a text box.

_Got no sleep 2nite. Staying home. Send Cedes 3. C U F party?_

Kurt did a lot of things to him, frustrating him and forcing him to open his damn mouth about his stupid issues, just a few of the things that probably drove them both crazy. But whatever, it was kinda awesome.

Sam grinned, exhausted, typed out the rest of the text, sent it off.

_U make me happy._  
_-S_

oOo

He hadn't set his alarm clock, but whatever, it couldn't have been _that_ late.

Sam rolled onto his stomach, glanced at the clock and grimaced. Ten o'clock on the dot. He dragged himself out of bed, showered in his in-suit bathroom, brushing his teeth before he could forget. He dressed for the day in baggy jeans, jogging shoes and threw on the worn grey sweatshirt usually reserved for late night runs. He didn't usually dress this bad at home, but today it wouldn't matter. Mom and Dad would be incommunicado until late evening, probably in time for Dad to start thinking about leaving.

He scrolled through his cell's recently called list as he made his way to the hall closet again, finding the number he was looking for nearly at the top of the list. Clive was never in the shop after nine, out on jobs around Lima and the surrounding area for most of the day. Sam knew he called later than he usually did, but he figured Clive would cut him some slack. He left a message on the shop's voice mail, reciting the things he needed repaired.

That done, Sam shoved his cell into his front left pocket and grabbed the mop and bucket again, headed to the kitchen. He mopped the floor a second time, just in case he missed anything. Once done, he returned the supplies to where they belonged, his stomach grumbling half way from the kitchen and into the hallway.

His hunger could wait. The fridge was filled to the brim, but what good would that do if he didn't have anything it eat on? Mom hated disposable anything, and he hadn't replaced the paper plates he'd hid in his room yet. Going out for fast-food made him queasy, the very prospect of going outside to get it made his stomach turn.

He went back up to his room, bored, tired, a little angry. Not out of the ordinary when Dad was home. His chores were done, all except letting Clive in and replacing the stuff in the kitchen. Mom didn't eat for a day or two after Dad left, so the trip to the mall for more dinnerware could hold. Oh, and there was the homework he hadn't finished last night.

He flopped back on the bed, glared at the ceiling. He _did_ need to get to his homework, and staying home on a Friday gave him ample time to do it. But, if he wanted to go to Finn's party later and not stress about all that needed to be done while he was there, he might as well get to it.

The doorbell rang just after two-thirty; Sam was nearly done with his last subject—Social Studies. He stomped down the stairs, feet loud against the stillness of the house. Yeah, no one noticed, but he still got a little thrill out of it.

"I got the glass you need in the truck," Clive grumbled as soon as Sam swung the door open, an unlit cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth with his teeth. "Shouldn't take more than twenty or thirty minutes to fix."

Clive was squat, around five-foot-four give a take a half inch. His perma-tan gave way to a portly stomach and leathery skin, especially in the crevices of the crows feet around his dark brown eyes and up to his hair line and under his midnight o'clock shadow (did the dude _ever_ shave?) where he'd flattened a black newsboy hat on top of his salt and pepper hair. His brown overalls—Sam never saw Clive in anything else—were just as stained as his matching brown boots, and always reminded Sam of a plumber like Mario, instead of a clock repairman.

"Hey, Clive." Sam grinned, moving out of the door and letting Clive pass.

Clive shuffled in with a non-committal grunt and walked right over to the longcase clock, straight to the point like always. He didn't touch the clock, but glanced around the front room, something he did without fail when he came by.

"It's spotless in here every time I come over," Clive said and Sam tensed.

Clive, paying him no mind, hummed and grunted as he opened the clock's door, fiddling around with the insides. "It needs another calibration and the parts cleaned before I replace the sheet glass. You did good work cleaning out all the fuzz."

Sam nodded, but Clive didn't look at him. Sam closed the front door belatedly, so thrown by Clive's observation on the house he'd forgotten about he still held the doorknob in his hand.

Clive poked around in the belt strapped to his waist, tiny tools Sam didn't recognize situated on the belt instead of wrenches, and hammers—things he'd expect on any other tradesman.

"I'm no fool, Sam," Clive said, voice gruff but clear as he held a mini screwdriver between stained fingers, attention on the clock. "It's only 'cause you and the missus don't have a scratch on you that I haven't called the authorities."

"It's not like that," Sam said and blinked. He'd crossed the room and was behind Clive, not remembering how he'd got there. "Nobody gets hurt here—"

The door bell rang again and Sam couldn't decide if it was a good or bad thing.

Clive grinned at him, cigarette dangling haphazardly. "Whatever you say, Sammy."

Sam had no excuse he thought Clive would buy, so he walked to the door at a fast clip, mouth firmly shut.

"Hi," he said, surprised but not sure why, once he'd opened the door. He should've guessed it would happen.

"Hello," Kurt said, smiling at him, bouncing a little on his feet. "How are you?"

"What are you so happy about?" Sam asked as he let Kurt in the house. And the guy was excited about something. He was all smiley and _peppy_.

"Oh, nothing much. I woke up this morning with a text from you and it's had me in a good mood every since. It was sweet." Kurt brushed by him, closer than was needed, smelling faintly of a men's cologne that always drove Sam a little mad. "I didn't think anyone thought about me so late at night."

"Dude, you're half the reason I'm so tired today." Sam rolled his eyes, returned Kurt's smile. "Me thinking about you at night isn't weird. That's all I do."

"I—okay." Kurt's eyes widened, face flushed in a second flat.

Sam frowned, weirded out by Kurt's reaction. He replayed his words in his head, blanched. "No—that's not what I meant. I don't jerk off to thoughts of you—I mean I _do_, but I try not to think about you too much when my hands are on my dick, but—_shit_."

"Smooth operator, that's Sammy," Clive said through a rusty chortle. Sam stared at him instead of Kurt (because he _did not_ want to deal with his foot in mouth disease with other people present), face hot as Clive walked toward them, dark eyes dancing. "I always thought he was strange. Hi, Mr. Hummel."

"Hi Mr. Owen," Kurt said and Sam looked at him, not surprised to see the blush, though it was fading faster than Sam had expected it to. Well, at least one of them was getting back on even ground. "How's Marci treating you?"

"She's doing pretty good. Her brakes are making an awful screech when I soft peddle her, though. Her transmission could use another gander, too."

Kurt nodded, all business, attention on Clive—_Clive Owen_.

Sam fought the grin, he totally did.

"Bring her by when you have a spare moment tomorrow. I'll be working until noon. We're surprisingly light tomorrow, so I should be able to check her and have you two back on the road fast."

"Dude, your name's _Clive Owen_," Sam blurted and laughed. "That's neat."

Kurt and Clive shared a look, but Sam didn't care, it was priceless.

"Hey, I'm a world class guy," Clive said, cigarette hanging dangerously low, breath stale; the scent he put off a mix of what kinda smelled like rotary oil and pine needles. "I'm a clock repairman by day, actor by night. You got a problem?"

Sam shook his head, at a loss for words. But he didn't miss the cut off chuckle from Kurt's direction. "Um, no?"

"Good. All I gotta do is replace the glass and your clock's as good as fixed. You did a good job with the cleanup—" Sam didn't flinch, much "—but I gotta tell ya, I don't think it's gonna last another accident." Clive watched him, face bland and unassuming, eyes sharp under bushy black brows. "Do you want me to order another one now, or after this one breaks for good?"

Sam rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, thinking; he could feel Clive and Kurt's gazes on him, steady and curious. "Yeah, order another one," he said eventually, dropping his hands and ignoring Kurt's raised brow and glances at the clock against the far wall. "I'll come by the shop next week with the money needed. Oh, yeah, let me pay you for today. My wallet's in my room—"

"It's on the house," Clive said, waving a meaty hand near Sam's face. "You're my best and most frequent customer. Regardless of all that, the company I've been ordering your clock from has been giving me a hefty discount for being _their_ most frequent customer."

Sam grimaced, not too surprised. "That's good to know."

"I know, that's what I figure." Clive grinned wolfishly as he side-stepped him and Kurt and reached the short distance to the door. He opened it, and was most of the way out before he stuck his head back in again. "If I don't see you before I skip out, Kurt, send you Pa my best and have an—eh, what is it these days? Yeah, have a prideful, fabulous day."

"Thanks Mr. Owen," Kurt said cheerily, but Clive was already gone.

Sam wasted no time once the door was closed. Clive would be back any minute and he wanted to save himself more embarrassment by having Kurt in his room before he managed to shove another foot in his mouth. He'd still be embarrassed, but at least it would be just between him and Kurt. He took Kurt's right wrist and tugged him up to the stairs and to his room in record time, which was a little surprising since Kurt didn't even put up a fight about being manhandled.

"I missed you today," he said as soon as the door to his room was closed, going for broke and using a direct approach. He released Kurt's wrist and watched as he leaned against his bedroom door, eyes bright, mouth parted ever so slightly. Sam dropped his eyes to Kurt's neck, his fingers twitching with the need to touch. "I could've used your attitude earlier."

Kurt tilted his head against the door, his hands splayed against the wood, his loose gray slacks and long sleeve black shirt doing all kinds of interesting things to Sam's brain, mainly short-circuiting it. "Not many people miss my attitude."

"That's one of my favorite parts about you. Didn't you know?" Sam grinned, walked a little closer to Kurt, reached out and cupped the left side of his face, heart speeding up as Kurt pushed his face into his hand, eyes soft.

Kurt frowned, both his hands covering Sam's against his face. "What have you been doing today? I don't think your hands have been this rough in weeks."

Sam flinched, slipped his hand free from under Kurt's. "I cleaned up some, that's all."

"Oh, no you don't. You've reached your limit for angst ridden faces for at least the rest of the month." Kurt said, catching hold of Sam's sweatshirt before he could quite get away, yanking _hard_.

Sam stumbled back to Kurt, a little shocked. By the look of amusement sprinkled on his face, Sam didn't think Kurt was unaware that he'd totally just performed the _reverse-stumble-pull-kiss_ move…well, without the kissing part. "Careful, I don't want to squish you," he mumbled, his nose brushing Kurt's as he prevented their heads from crashing together by leaning his forearms on either side of Kurt's head. "Something horrible could happen, like your clothes wrinkling."

"Tell me something that'll make you smile," Kurt said, rolling his eyes, tone brooking no argument as he tugged on Sam's sweatshirt, his sweatshirt covered knuckles twisting and brushing against Sam's navel.

"I'm already smiling, see?" Sam grinned, all teeth, his eyes shut tight. Kurt snorted and he opened his eyes. "You're here, so I'm smiling," he said, leaning his head away from Kurt's before he did something he'd regret. Kurt wasn't touching him too much, just his hands knotted in the bottom of his shirt, but Sam was so touch starved, it didn't take a lot to get his skin hot and tingly. But then again, it was Kurt. He'd wanted to touch Kurt almost as soon as they'd met and even though their legs were brushing and maybe their arms, Kurt might as well have been grinding against him.

"I'm worried about you. Mr. Owen fixed the Grandfather clock for a reason." Kurt's hands loosening on Sam's shirt and wandered to his waist with tentative care, thumbs gentle as they rested on Sam's skin, just over the top of his jeans, under his sweatshirt. He looked into Sam's face, eyes skipping around, brows furrowed. "Did something happen last night? Sometime to do with what you told me yesterday?"

Sam nodded, leaned his head against Kurt's and took comfort in the hands on his body, the dark hair that poked him in the eyes. "Dad came home while I was at school yesterday. I was up for most of the night cleaning up their mess."

"You said that I was only half the reason why you were up late last night. How much of a mess—what else was messed up besides the clock?" Kurt's hands moved from Sam's waist and came to rest on his shoulders, fingers digging into his shoulders as he shook Sam a little.

"The front room got a little junky, but the kitchen got the worst of it," he said, lifting his head and looking at Kurt properly. He wasn't surprised by the pale face that looked back at him, or by the hands slipping from his shoulders and pushing him away. He closed his eyes, took a breath. "If you want to go—"

"Look at me," Kurt said soft but firm, tugged on Sam's shirt again. He opened his eyes to Kurt's frowning mouth, somber eyes. "Show me."

Sam didn't bother putting up a fight. He'd do anything if it kept Kurt from leaving him alone, Mom and Dad's words still too fresh in his head. He would've kissed Kurt until they both couldn't think of anything else, but it was hard to distract Kurt let alone himself, in this house.

Sam moved back and waited for Kurt to open the door. He took the lead once they were outside his room, shoving his cold hands in the pockets as he led Kurt into the front room, Kurt a steady presence just out of sight.

He crouched in front of the tan couch, found the work gloves and tossed them on the middle cushion. "I put them under there because someone always finds them everywhere else, even in my room. I don't think they look for them on purpose, but they always manage to get found." He straightened, stuffed his hands back into his pockets, ran his tongue over his teeth, felt Kurt press his shoulder into his, but he was too cold to return the gesture. "When it goes down, things get overturned and moved and _broken_ and _stained_—anyway, no one thinks about what happens after the fun is over."

Kurt moved past him, hand taking a moment to give him a comforting squeeze on his elbow, and bent over, replacing the gloves like he did it all the time, putting them right where Sam did every time, like he knew the right spot.

Sam looked at his feet as Kurt returned to his side, a lump the size of the rock of Gibraltar in his throat, eyes burning like a house on fire.

Kurt took his left hand out his pocket, fingers entwining like they'd always been there, fitting as perfect as Sam could've ever hoped.

Sam lifted his head in time to see Kurt stare at the Grandfather clock, face doing something he couldn't figure out—he looked sad, but his chin was lifted like when he was getting ready to lay into someone—his hand tightened on Sam's.

Kurt headed to kitchen without saying a word, freaking Sam out a little. He let himself be pulled to the kitchen by hand, braced for whatever shit storm he was going to get.

Kurt released his hand as soon as they entered the kitchen, opening the cabinets and drawers, hands working fast, mouth a sharp slash across his face, eyes hard and growing harder with every drawer and cupboard opened. Sam shuffled to the stove, and leaned against it, content to wait.

Kurt didn't look at him until every cabinet and drawer was open, accusing Sam with their bare shelves, crevices and hooks. He met Kurt's gaze head on, ready for the blow. Because yeah, why wouldn't there be a blow? It was obvious with just a look that his problems were just the start of it, what with his crazy parents and crazy house and crazy way of looking at things, they never really had a chance. Who would want to be around someone like that? Kurt deserved an easy, happy first boyfriend, not someone like him. He had _way_ to much—

"Why haven't you left?" Kurt said, voice loud against all the emptiness surrounding them.  
Sam blinked, thrown. That wasn't what Kurt was supposed to say. "I'm tired of running," he said, because it was the truth. He'd done that with everything and everyone, there had to be a time when enough was enough, and this was his time. He shrugged, aware of how blasé he came off; but there was no other way to say it. "Running didn't solve anything; probably made things worse. I was the only one who changed while I was gone." Not that anyone who knew him had noticed, and he didn't want them to. He still had to play by his parents rules for a little longer, so there was no point letting the guys back home in on the situation. It would be a while before he could stop pretending all together, probably when he was much older. He hoped by that time, he still remembered what it felt like to be completely this person, hoped he still wanted to be the person he was now.

"I'm going to help you," Kurt declared, his brows knit together as he gave the kitchen another once over. He turned his gaze on Sam, eyes hard, filled with some kind of zealous fire. "Get your jacket; we're going to Pottery Barn."

Sam chuckled despite himself, the stress that'd been plaguing him since he realized Dad was home evaporating like mist. "Retail therapy can't solve all the world's problems."

"No, but it's a start." Kurt rolled his eyes, a small smile taking over the frown. "We're skipping the party, just so you know. You're coming to my place and we're going to watch movies and not think about anything you don't want. The biggest dilemma you're having tonight is whether or not you're going to break your no-butter rule."

Sam fought to keep the smile off his face, so relieved he could've cried. Of course Kurt was pissed _for_ him and not _at_ him. Geez, he could be an idiot sometimes. But it didn't mean he'd let Kurt help, as nice as the offer was. "Dude, I'm paying. Are you sure you want to skip the party? Everyone's been excited about it for the last few days. I don't want you to waste time with me—"

"What we do together is not a waste of my time, Sam, so please get that out of your head." Kurt scoffed, speed walking toward him and manhandling him out the kitchen and toward the stairs, grumbling the entire way, hands flat between Sam's shoulder blades as he pushed him along. "It'll be fun. Dad and Carole left for a weekend trip to Columbus an hour ago, so we'll have the house to ourselves. I wish you would stop questioning my generosity and _get your damn coat_."

"Your wish is my command," he threw over his shoulder just to irritate Kurt, grinning into Kurt's very unimpressed face.

oOo

He'd changed his clothes even though Kurt hadn't asked him to. It was a lot easier than watching people give him weird looks because Kurt was dressed to the nines and he was dressed for yard work.

His jeans were a tighter than most everybody was used to seeing on him. They weren't as tight as the ones Kurt usually wore, but he'd be lying if he didn't admit they hugged his ass. He'd paired the jeans with his dark blue Dr. Horrible Evil League of Evil t-shirt and grey zip up hoodie. So yeah, nothing too out of the ordinary.

They didn't get out of Pottery Barn until nearly five, having left around three-thirty, and he didn't think he'd ever get the image of thirty different types of china patterns out of his head. He was pretty sure he'd be haunted by them until the end of his life or until he got tired of rereading his mint condition Hamilton/Swan_ Night Wing_ Collaboration (handled with sterile gloves and an extra dust mask in case he left a finger print or breathed on it the wrong way), whichever came first—hopefully death.

It was easy to imagine Kurt as an evil overlord after his thirst for dinnerware and the blood of incompetent sales associates had been quenched. They guy took no prisoners, had no sympathy for the stockroom staff when they informed them they were out of Passionate Paisley #5, he dominated and trampled any casual shopper in his wake with ruthless ease.

Sam had been hard for an hour and a half and was _seriously_ regretting going with the tighter pair of jeans.

"You're taking one set with you when you leave, and the other seven will stay with me. No point losing all the china in one go," Kurt said as he piled four boxes of dinner sets into Sam's waiting arms once they'd opened the back of the SUV. He made sure to press the garage opener on his keychain, suffering from some insane feat of strength as he picked up the remaining three sets they were leaving at his house _one handed_ while his right hand closed the back of the vehicle.

"Oh—oh…_oh_," Sam garbled as Kurt walked up the walkway to the front door of the house, carrying the three boxes with apparent little effort. Sam flushed, watched Kurt's ass as he followed close behind, his own arms straining to keep the boxes upright.

Somehow he made it through the house and down the stairs to Kurt's bedroom without incident, kinda impressed with himself. They stacked the box in a corner by Kurt's massive wardrobe, probably forgotten until needed. They went upstairs to the living room, and Sam sprawled out toward the middle of the couch while Kurt rifled through the DVD/Blue-ray collection, humming some Show-tune or other.

"I still have Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy from when you left it here last time," Kurt said turning around with the box, shaking it. "How does that sound?"

"It sounds great," Sam mumbled, eyelids sore and kinda heavy; his stomach growled and he rubbed his belly absently as he let his head flop back so he could watch Kurt under hooded eyes.

Kurt smirked at him, head tilted. "I'll go order a pizza while the disk loads, Rip Van Winkle."

Sam opened his eyes, the living room dark, light flickering across the ceiling from his vantage point. He could hear Marvin despairing about the cards dealt him and how miserable everything was, Vogons joining him after a blast came from the TV screen, the TV's light flashing across the ceiling almost like a laser show.

"Huh; I was wondering when you were going to wake up," he heard Kurt murmur distractedly.

Sam shifted on the couch, realized he was horizontal and his head cushioned by Kurt's lap. Fingers wiggled against his scalp, the force of Kurt's chuckled shook his head and he let his eyes close for duration of it, soaking up the feeling of Kurt's amusement.

"I've been asleep for almost two hours," he mused aloud, opening eyes and turning his head into Kurt's stomach for a moment or two.

"Longer than that. I hadn't called for delivery before you were out. I didn't think you'd be up for long regardless; I wore you out more than you already were," Kurt mumbled, sounding less distracted, a warmth to his voice Sam tried hard as hell not to categorize as fond, failed miserably.

"Thanks for coming by and spending time with me today," Sam said half against Kurt's shirt, half to the open air, warm, comfortable—"Happy; you made me real happy today."

Kurt's hands tightened his hair. "Spend the weekend with me."

Sam turned on his side and sat up partially, just enough so he was nearly chest to chest with Kurt, left arm on the other side of Kurt's thighs, bearing the brunt of Sam's weight as his hand pressed into the cushion just on the left side of Kurt's legs. "That's not a good idea," he said with a shake of his head, sad, frustrated. "Don't ask me to do that."

"My dad's gone and you'll be away from your parents. At least stay until your father leaves again." Kurt talked fast, bordering on desperate, his pupils large so close up. "What if the next thing they break isn't a glass, but you?"

"That's not how it works," was the only way Sam could put it without thinking too hard. He licked his lips, eyes dropping to Kurt's mouth just out of his reach, thinking harder. "It's psychological, like how the Emperor slowly chipped away at Anakin's way of thinking until he thought like a Sith by the end of the first three Star War movies. And like that, Mom and Dad wouldn't hurt me."

"Sam, Darth Vader tossed the Emperor down the shaft that led to the core reactor on the second Death Star, but only _after_ he was electrocuted by the Emperor, and then he _died_." Kurt glowered at him, right eye twitching under the TV's illumination. "You're going to have to give me a better argument. Star Wars logic won't work on me now that you've made sure I'm well versed in the subject."

"They've never hurt me, I promise," Sam whispered, eyes dropping to Kurt's mouth again. "I'll be _fine_."

Kurt scowled at him, but his hands were gentle as he sank them into Sam's hair. "Promise me you'll call or come by when it happens again. I don't care what time it is or what I'm doing, call. Promise, Sam."

"Promise," he replied, throat dry. He swallowed, torn between happiness and worry. "I can take care of myself. I don't want you or Mercedes to get tied up in this—"

"We already are," Kurt said, frown still marring his face as his eyes roved over Sam's face. "Well, _I_ am. I care about you—more than just care about you, and if Mercedes knew what was happening, she'd agree with me. You said you're done running. So I'll be with you and stand next to you while you face this, okay? We're in this together now, and that's never going to change."

Sam hoped it never changed. He didn't know what the hell he'd do if it _did_ change.

His eyes stung, chest had that feeling Dad said he was incapable of understanding. His breath hitched, and he opened his mouth, but Kurt's lips were on his the nuisance of words to ask for what he needed.

Kurt's mouth was gentle but not bashful, his hands in Sam's hair holding on for dear life. He didn't freeze up, their lips pressed together, firm, solid, real. Kurt didn't try to force his way into Sam's mouth, not that he'd expected him to. The kiss was pretty chaste, but it made Sam's heart flip with the balance and sweetness of it.

Kurt retreated, and Sam stopped himself from following after his mouth. "It's felt like you were the one wooing me today," he said, giving in and kissing Kurt again, short and sweet, _Hitchhiker's Guide_ main theme playing in the background. "But you didn't have to. I already knew how awesome you are."

Kurt laughed against his mouth, the vibrations of it thrumming through Sam's body, a welcome distraction from the emotions that threatened to surface and force things he wasn't ready to be made known. "I'll settle for your hero, then."

"Oh, I forgot. I'm supposed to ask you something." Sam said, leaning back again, got a thrill out of Kurt's petulant scowl. "Wicked's playing at Bean's Art Center next Saturday and I was wondering if you'd see it with me?" he asked faster than he intended, but he could bet money on Kurt's fast talking ways and make a pile of money; the dude would understand him.

"Yes," Kurt said, mouth unhinging as he blinked at Sam, brows furrowed in that cute way he had. "But the tickets have been sold out for a few days. How'd you manage to get some?"

"Mom got bored and bought season tickets for a few of the Arts Centers and Community Theaters in the area." He shrugged, cheeks warming. "All I had to do was call to let them know I wanted to use the tickets. We've got box seats at Bean's Center, I think. So that'll be cool."

"Is your mom independently wealthy or something close to it? Season tickets to the surrounding area? _Sam,_ that's a lot of money, I've checked." Kurt didn't sound too mad, mostly really happy, his hands tightening in Sam's hair and Sam tried not to nibble on Kurt's left ear, just stared at it for a minute. He wasn't about to talk about Mom and Dad and ruin the mood by opening _that_ can of worms. "Is Wicked the one about the witches or the one about the chicks in prison for murder?" he asked, turning his attention back to Kurt's lips, covering his mouth over Kurt's every time he tried to open it.

"I'm going to go to jail for murdering you if you don't let me talk," Kurt grumbled and Sam chuckled against his mouth, not scared in the least, but he leaned back far enough to look Kurt in the eye.

"It's the one with the witches," Kurt said after a moment, giving him one of those long, weird looks. "Are you sure you're going to be okay after I drop you off?"

"You're a phone call away, right?" Sam said, brushing his lips against Kurt's again, reveling in the feel. Happy, content, the world looking pretty awesome. "With you around, I think I'll be golden."

Yeah. Absolutely _golden_.

oOo

AN: Ugh, so tired. Sorry this is so dense. I'm going to keep the posting days on Tuesday, because no matter what day I post this, I'll procrastinate! XD I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope to see you next week.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Dad started calling him on Wednesday. He got the first message as he pulled into the school parking lot.

Sam stared at the number, as students buzzed around the car like bees. Sam swallowed, jaw clenched tight. There was no way in hell he was gonna pick up. What could Dad want to say to him?

He waited until it went to voice mail, and with shaking hands, he placed the phone against his ear.

"I have my reasons for hating what you're becoming," Dad had said a slight echo in wherever he was, so quiet and sincere Sam almost dropped his phone. "You know the reasons."

Dad always chose his words with care, had it down to an art form. Unlike Mom (or Sam, if he was pushed hard enough), Dad hated lying, manipulating and any kind of power play. Sam doubted Dad would ever deny saying hurtful things to him or anyone. To Dad it all made sense; he was cutting the fat and getting straight to the point. If Dad thought he didn't understand certain things, like love or how to read, he believed it to be completely true and he was rarely wrong.  
Dad's words used to throw Sam into a rage that could rival Mom's, if he let it. Nowadays, he accepted how Dad was. Besides, Dad had ever been wrong.

He was leaving Astronomy class and heading to second period when he got the next message. Luckily, he was saved from explanations since neither Mercedes or Kurt was in Astronomy with him. Still, even though he didn't want to talk, he could have used the support.

"You're not wasted materials. There's hope for you yet." Dad spoke crisply and concisely, as always, though his voice was raised so he could be heard over the din. It sounded like a populated area, and Sam was sure it was a restaurant, based on the clattering of plates and a person still speaking (what was the native language of Indonesia? Sam was pretty sure it was a form of Polynesian) to Dad when his voice mail must have picked up.

Why the hell was Dad calling him, anyway? Sam knew it had to be in secret. Mom would have told him Dad was gonna call so they could laugh about it.

He didn't get another call on that day. He'd been too happy about it, he figured, since the calls started up again Friday morning. And again, it was right as he pulled into the school parking lot. It was starting to freak Sam out. Dad seemed to be planning when he called.

"I never wanted your life to be like this." Dad sighed into the phone, no background sound this time. Sam figured he was in his hotel room, hopefully. He hated the idea of Dad calling him some place where people could focus on what he said. Not that Sam had to worry about that; Dad would never be so unprofessional as to make a personal call around business rivals. He might not make the family (more) money by cheating and stealing and manipulation, but that didn't stop others.

"At first, I didn't want you at all," Dad continued, voice laden with misery and a rueful kind of charm Sam had never heard from him before. "_You_ were never the reason, understand. Your mother's condition doesn't do well with children, and I believed that any child we brought into the world would be just as her. Or worse, that she could teach it to you, and she did."

Sam was late to first period by fifteen minutes. If he looked like he'd been crying, well, it was only because he had a coughing fit in the car and there wasn't any water around.

* * *

"Are you going to pick anything out for the special occasion?" Mercedes asked Kurt from across their usual table while she separated her tater tots into groups of four with ketchup packets acting as dividers. "You've seen like three times, but it'll be Sam's first."

Kurt shrugged beside him, looked at Sam askance, eyes sly. "There's a first time for everything. At least I've got him beat on this one."

Sam bit his lip to hide his grin, dropped his eyes to his bottled water and protein shake. Thanks to Dad, today felt like a chili cheese fry's day, but he didn't allow himself those until the end of the month; he'd just have to hold out. "Cool, I'm a musical virgin."

Kurt laughed, looking directly at him, cheeks flushed and eyes teasing. "Not for long. I'll have you slaughtering On the Town and South Pacific in no time."

Sam rolled his eyes, trying his best not to laugh. "Dude, I can carry a tune! You said I had a great voice—"

He jumped in his chair as his cell buzzed in his back pocket. Sam's stomach bottomed out, his mood plummeting along with it. "_Shit_."

"What's wrong?" Kurt's hand on his shoulder was warm through his shirt, fingers gentle but firm.

Sam grimaced, embarrassed. He pulled his phone out and yep, another message—a text, this time—from Dad. "Yeah, it's cool. My phone just scared me."

Kurt scoffed, gave him that look he used a lot; the one where he said he despaired over Sam's future. "I despair over your future sometimes," he said, an exasperated smile on his face.

"Tell me something I don't already know," he mumbled, attention on his blackberry. As Kurt turned back to Mercedes.

I don't enjoy it.

That was the first time Dad had admitted it; which said a lot.

Sam's thumb trembled over the keys, scared and hopeful, too.

I know. I can tell.

He took a quick breath as he sent the text, not too loud or Kurt and Mercedes would notice, stomach lurching.

"You okay over there, Surfer boy?" Mercedes asked, concern lining the width of her mouth and in the set of her shoulders. "What was that about?"

"My Dad's been calling and texting me for the last day and a half. He just did it again, and I decided to answer this time." He placed the cell on the lunch table, beside his bottled water. And fuck, why did he say that? Kurt was gonna—"

"_What_?" Kurt blurted, turning his gimlet stare on him and flipping out as Sam expected. "How long again, and why didn't I know about this? I thought he left last Sunday on business."

"He did, but he's been calling me since Wednesday, and I haven't been answering, so I guess now he's trying texting." Sam shrugged, not too scared of Kurt. The guy probably wouldn't kill him, Sam didn't think. But then again, Kurt looked pretty mad.

"Sam, I thought we had an agreement. You promised," Kurt whispered, the anger gone like it was never there. "What stopped you from saying anything?"

"He's just leaving me messages. They aren't bad or anything. Just, you know, talking." He leaned close, wrapped his right hand around the back of Kurt's neck. "He's never done this before, and after the messages stopped yesterday, I figured he'd come to his senses, but he started up again today."

Kurt leaned into his hand, nodding. "What did the messages—"

His cell buzzed on the lunch table. Sam reached for it and had it opened before he took his next breath, left hand shaking all over again.

If I said I was sorry, what would you do?

That was a no-brainer, well, once Sam got over the shock.

Ask you to prove it.

He stared at the words he'd typed. They made sense, but he couldn't think straight. He never thought Dad would do something like that—apologize. He sent the text.

"Sam? _Sam_."

Sam looked up into Kurt's wary and pale face. "Yeah?" The phoned buzzed again, and he dropped his attention to it.

How?

He had a decision to make. If he went by Mom's way of thinking, he should continue the phone tag for a while longer, at least until he got what he wanted from Dad without having to ask.

Or, he could do it like Dad and be brutally honest about it, bring up all the reasons why it was a bad idea to try to change things, convince Dad to keep things the way they were.

But he wasn't Dad and he sure as hell loped he never ended up more like Mom, so it was time for something different. Something new.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?" Kurt asked, covering Sam's cell with his hand. "After what happened last weekend, are you sure whatever he's doing is real?"

"You don't get it, Kurt. Dad's the only one of us who's _ever_ real." He looked at Kurt again, pretty sure his heart was in his eyes, but also his fear. "So yeah, I know I'm doing the right thing."

Kurt removed his hand with a sigh, face shuttered. "Okay. I'll be here with you."

He turned his attention back to his phone, went to the top of his recent call list, and dialed the number he'd never dared to before. He was sorta aware that he was breathing had. His hand was sweaty as he put the phone to his ear; Kurt and Mercedes gazes on him.

For once, he ignored them.

"Stop running," he said as soon as he heard Dad pick up, voice deeper and shakier than he thought it would be. "Be here."

"Okay," Dad said and sounded so hopeful, so happy, Sam's heart tripped. "I will. Is there anything more?"

Sam looked at the lunch table, embarrassed, desperate, and wary. His fears faced him, then, all the times he'd hoped for a change and never got it, all the times he tried to make the change and failed, wishing it was someone else's decision to change. "I can't—don't with me, okay?"

"That's not my M.O." Dad stated, words patient when they came. "I'd never do or say anything I didn't mean."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, less scared, still embarrassed. Dad wasn't wrong. "You get once chance, alright? _One._"

"I know. I'll fix this," Dad said, his hiss a promise. "I'll fix everything."

"We'll see." He wanted to believe Dad, but even as he wished someone else would help, Dad wasn't invincible and he couldn't do the impossible. "How soon?"

"I arrived to Australia from Indonesia earlier today. There are never any non-stop flights from here to Ohio, so I'd say thirty-five to forty hours. Late Sunday if I can get a flight out in the next three hours, Early Monday if I can't."

"Um, okay." He glanced up, took in Kurt's still too pale face and Mercedes attention volleying between him and Kurt. He dropped his eyes to the table.

"You handled yourself well last weekend, Sam, despite everything." Huh. Dad actually sounded _proud_ of him. "Hopefully you won't have to do that again."

_Shit_. "What—you—what did you say? You don't do that-say my name." He quaked, resisted the urge to hold the phone away from his ear or reach for a totem. Was he dreaming or was this real life? "You hate me."

"I don't hate you," And there was the condescension Sam was used to. It actually calmed him down, some. "I've disliked that your world-class enabling has ejected me from my own home."

Sam chuckled, relieved. At least some things hadn't changed. "I'm surviving, that's all, Dad. Once you try it, you'll see why I do what I do."

"I've lived with your mother longer than you've been alive, but I'll give you the point. My actions are a coward's." Dad chuckled and Sam knew it was real. It was the first time he'd heard Dad laugh because he was happy. "See you, Son."

The dial tone sounded in his ear, and he wasn't gonna lie. He was relieved. But more than that, he had something else.

Hope.

"Okay, I couldn't follow that conversation. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that he said your name?" Kurt tilted his head, and Sam realized he'd never actually removed his hand from the back of Kurt's neck.

"It was good," Sam mumbled, eyes burning a little. He twirled the hair at the nape of Kurt's neck with his index finger, liking the way Kurt's eyes fluttered. "Kinda great."

Really great.

* * *

He was starting to think his locker was Grand Central Station.

"I've never seen you look like that before," Kurt said as he sidled up to Sam's locker, Geometry book held tight to his chest. "Your dad must have had a lot to say."

It was only a matter of time before the questions started. Sam appreciated Kurt backing off at lunch, knowing full well how much he—and Mercedes, now—were just bursting with questions. He'd needed the time to process, and Kurt being the cool guy that he was, made that possible.

"You're cute when you're nosy," Sam said, closing his locker and grinning at Kurt's pinking face. "Really cute."

Yeah, he knew Kurt didn't want to wait longer to learn more, but he couldn't help but flirt a little. 'Cause seriously, Kurt was cute.

Kurt sighed, long and exasperated—or tried to be, the smile battling to get on his face kinda ruined the effect. "Are you hearing anything I'm saying?"

"Totally; I hear you," he replied, chuckled at Kurt's scrunched forehead. "But I don't want to bring it up. We should be talking about our date tomorrow, not some stupid phone call."

"It wasn't some stupid phone call. I saw your face," Kurt muttered, rolling his eyes. He poked Sam in the chest with his right index finger, knocking Sam back a few paces, incidentally pushing him in the right direction down the hall to their Geometry class. "I've never seen you look so…_free_ before."

Sam stumbled, heart doing a somersault. "What?" Free? What the hell did that mean? Was freedom even possible?

Kurt smirked, all knowing. Sam doubted he knew what he thought he did. "So, it was a positive conversation."

Sam scowled at him, not amused—well, sorta. "Fine, yes. Like I said, it was great. Dad, um. He's coming home soon, so."

Sam managed to grab Kurt and yank him against his chest before he brained himself against the classroom door frame.

Kurt didn't notice. "Come home?" he hissed, looking around them as they took their seats toward the back of the room.

There were a few minutes to spare before class started, and unlike Sam, Kurt was a quick reader. Sam fished his cell out of his back pocket, slid it across to Kurt's desk.

Kurt opened the Blackberry and went to listening to the messages, looking at Sam sightlessly, mouth in a thin line. Sam chuckled, relieved again that his world wasn't completely topsy-turvy.

"You dad has the worst people skills on the planet," Kurt said once he'd read the texts a few minutes later, blinking at Sam. "I know Sue Sylvester and he makes her seem like Mother Theresa."

Sam rolled his eyes, definitely amused this time. "Dude, he's not _that_ bad. He doesn't like to waste words, that's all."

"He's not a word waster?" Kurt huffed at him, returned the phone to his open palm. "That's the best you can do?"

Sam shrugged as the bell rang, not too upset with Kurt's assessment. "It's accurate."

* * *

"Do you think he's going to be enough?" Mom asked as she leaned against the inside of his bedroom door, arms wrapped loosely around her torso. "He seems more emotional than most. I don't know how you hold your temper around him." Her nose wrinkled, like she was smelling something disgusting.

Sam popped into his bathroom on quick feet, gave his navy blue suit, white oxford and silver with blue paisley tie a cursory glance. He tightened the full Windsor at his neck, smiled at himself. He hoped Kurt approved, 'cause he didn't wear suits for just any guy. He blinked at himself in the mirror, thinking over Mom's observation.

Mom wasn't as clever as she thought, but Sam figured a lot of the reason for that was his fault; and before that, Dad's.

He shrugged once he was back in his room, made his face as bland as possible. "He doesn't piss me off when he gets emotional. I don't know why, but whatever; he's interesting."

Mom unwrapped her arms, offered Sam the two tickets in her left hand as they met in the center of his room. "He looks like he cries a lot. I don't know if he's interesting enough to look past that."

Sam snorted, took the tickets and put them in his inner coat pocket with practiced ease, hating every moment. It was like being back at Taftover or Dalton all over again. "I think it's cool to watch his face change when I make him sad."

"Sad, huh?" Mom mused, head half tilted to the ceiling as she backtracked toward the door. "I wonder what that's like."

"Disappointing," Sam said and chuckled with Mom, mood plummeting as they headed out of his room.

"By the way, have you heard anything from your father? He hasn't called since Wednesday. I'm concerned." Mom watched his as they descended the stairs side by side.

"Why would he call me?" He said and shoved his hands in his pockets so she wouldn't see them shake. "And besides, you're not concerned."

Mom smirked as they reached the bottom of the stairs and Sam headed for the front door. "You're right, I'm not concerned. But your father broke his pattern. I think I might've made him a bit desperate after our conversation. Desperate enough to phone you."

Sam suppressed the sigh and opened the door. Mom loved her patterns; it was stupid to wish she'd change, but sometimes—like last weekend—he hoped she would. "I'll be back late. Don't wait up."

Mom frowned, eyes flicking over Sam, head tilted like a bird. "Why would I do that? I don't care."

Sad part was, Mom was telling the truth.

* * *

There were a ton of cars in Kurt's driveway when he pulled up, so Sam parked on the street. He figured Kurt probably mentioned something about a party earlier in the week, but with the Dad thing, he was distracted.

If the gathering was a party, it looked like it was a pretty mixed bunch. Sam recognized Santana's Ford Fusion, Quinn's mom's Cadillac, and Finn's car; and then there was a bunch of pickup trucks and SUVs he didn't. He wasn't gonna lie, he hoped all the people around distracted Mr. Hummel. Yeah, Mr. Hummel had been nice to him the last time he was by, but changes didn't happen overnight, even if Blaine was the catalyst.

"Hello, Sam!" Ms. Hudson exclaimed, grinning wide once she'd opened the door, Eagles' _Desperado_ blaring from somewhere inside. "Oh, you look handsome."

"Thanks, Ms. Hudson." Sam blushed and shifted on his feet. "Is Kurt around?"

"He should be ready in a minute." Ms. Hudson scooted back and Sam walked inside, a little surprised by all the activity. "He's locked himself in his room downstairs and I think he's changed his shirt three times by now."

It was game night, if the card table in the back of the living room was anything to go by. People he'd seen around town, and some he hadn't, filled a few of the seats at the card table, occupied at the dart board on the wall by the kitchen entrance, and the (very familiar) squeezed onto the couch, watching what sounded like a basketball. Even without the Eagles' greatest hits playing, the house was filled with noise—the good kind, like laughter, cheer and fun.

Puck, Clive and Finn stood up as one off the couch, their eyes glued to the TV. Next thing Sam knew, they were jumping up and down, their noise only rivaled with whatever happened at the poker table where Artie was grinning while Mr. Shue, Quinn, Santana and Britney muttered in disgust as Artie gathered poker chips, laughing maniacally.

"Um," Sam managed, completely lost. How'd he not notice Kurt—hell, _everybody_—talking about tonight?

Ms. Hudson's smile softened, kinda indulgent, if Sam was being real. Sam, figured she had a lot of practice with that one, being Finn's mom. "We combined the celebration for Burt's all clear from his doctor and game night. It's a little overwhelming, but you'll get used to the rowdiness. If you want, you can head down to Kurt's room."

Sam nodded and left without another word, distracted by the noise and his nerves. He'd prepared himself for the third degree from Mr. Hummel, but so far the guy was a no-show—

"Are you planning to eat before or after the show? Kurt's been so nervous; he's only been drinking water."

Well, fuck.

Mr. Hummel must have told Kurt he'd arrived, since he was at the foot of Kurt's stairs. That, or he'd locked Kurt away.

Sam swallowed, noticed Mr. Hummel's stare wasn't a stare at all, but a smile—sympathetic at that. "Um, after the show. There's not much time before."

Mr. Hummel nodded, cleared his throat, looking pained. "I'm not food with this kind of thing, so I'm just gonna say it."

"Don't worry, sir. I'm not going to hurt Kurt or take advantage of him—he'd kick my ass if I even tried—"

"Not that," Mr. Hummel said, looking like he was trying to hold his laughter back more than a grimace or disgust. "I mean—I knew way back that you liked Kurt…and it's obvious Kurt liked you."

Oh. "_Oh_." Sam blinked a few times, licked his lips. "Yeah, I liked him back then. I'm still not in his league."

"That's what I wanted to tell you," Mr. Hummel said, somber again, _nice_ again. "I had you pegged when I first met you, Son. I never doubted you were a good kid. I raised Kurt to know the difference between good and bad, and if he brought you home, I knew you were someone I'd like, eventually. But even through all that, I saw the way you looked at him and the way he was scared to try with you after he'd backed off. I knew then how much he liked you." Mr. Hummel placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezed a little. "It was never because you weren't good enough for my boy, Sam, no matter what I said. I gave you a hard time because he's my son."

Sam nodded, stared at the door that led to the Kurt's room. He swallowed once, twice, four times. He—_wow_.

"Thank you, sir. That means a lot," he managed after what felt like fifteen years. "Really."

Mr. Hummel patted him on the back with gusto. "Welcome, Sam. Kurt's waiting for you below."

Sam marched down the stairs, mind whirling. He hadn't expected that.

What a week.

* * *

He held Kurt's hand through the entire musical. It was cool to see Kurt's blush even in the semi-dark.

If Kurt had told him the play was about the Wizard of Oz, he would've been way more excited about it. It was pretty cool to see the whole thing from another perspective. The Wicked Witch of the West wasn't evil, she was just misunderstood.

Mom would get a kick out of that.

As they left the Center Sam made sure to hold Kurt's hand in front of all the guests, casually and quietly. Sure, they got looks, but it didn't matter. He'd remember Kurt's grin for the rest of his life.

"You know, I should smack you for taking me to Breadstix for dinner." Kurt raised a brow at him once they got past the exit traffic and on the highway.

"What?" Sam glanced at Kurt, agog. He never told him they were going to freaking _Breadstix_.

"Wasn't it where you and Quinn had your first date? If I didn't already forgive you for your faux pas, you wouldn't get a second date."

"Dude, we're not going to Breadstix. I wouldn't take you there. I don't think I'm capable of that kind of bad taste." The restaurant was still in Bean, but on the outskirts. Sam saw the sign for the exited they needed a few miles farther down. Sweet.

"Oh. Well, thank you for having taste and not taking me to a place toy took your ex," Kurt muttered, face turned toward the passenger window.

Sam tucked his tongue in his cheek to hold off the laugh and concentrated on driving, more than content to let Kurt stew. The guy totally deserved it for thinking he'd take him to Breadstix.

Kurt shifted in his seat, scratched the back of his neck. Cleared his throat.

Sam hummed _We Are the Champions_, took some satisfaction in Kurt's second throat clearing in less than two minutes. Kurt hated that song, something about repressed memories watching _The Mighty Ducks_ when he was eight.

Kurt turned on the radio like it was his car and Sam snorted.

"I hear you over there snickering," Kurt grumbled. "_Fine_. Where are you taking me?"

"Oh, I thought you'd already decided where we were going. So, we aren't going to Breadstix?" Sam teased, chancing a glance in Kurt's direction. "You know you're at your cutest and least threatening when you're grumpy, right?"

"I don't do grumpy," Kurt grumped, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am poised, stoic—"

"Crazy," Sam supplied and laughed at Kurt's scoff. "We're going to Helene's."

Shocked silence was what Sam hoped he'd get when he told Kurt their destination, but he didn't think it would last so long.

"Helene's," Kurt said, bland as could be. "_Helene's_?" he said, voice kinda high as he punched Sam in the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam laughed as he exited the highway, doing his best not to get distracted by all Kurt's wiggling. "It was a surprise. You already knew about the first part."

"Helene's has been mostly RSVP since its reopening. I heard there's been a waiting list since the summer," Kurt babbled, voice returning to a relatively normal level. "How long have you been planning this—you weren't going to take Quinn here, were you?"

"Seriously, no. I RSVP'd like two days ago. I don't know about any list. We ate there back in May when we first moved here, before they closed for renovations." Sam glanced at Kurt, gauged his mood. He didn't look too upset, more interested, Sam would guess. Kurt wasn't frowning at him, so that was good. "I told Mom I wanted to go back, so she called Dad, got the owner's number from him and I called."

The restaurant was pretty far back from the highway, down a few miles of isolated roads. Since the renovations, Helene's was going for the French Château, and that worked out nicely, what with it being nestled in a grouping of woods, secluded from civilization for miles around. He pulled into the parking lot, right up to the entrance and the waiting red vested valet.

Kurt sent him a weak glare as the valet opened his door. "Don't think you're going to get out of explaining this to me."

"Not a big deal, Dude." Sam mostly said it to himself. Kurt was already out the car, the valet wishing them a fine evening.

Sam passed the valet his keys, took the ticket and walked around the car. He slipped his right hand back into Kurt left without a hitch, smiling to himself as he led a blushing Kurt through Helene's opening doors.

"Hello, Mr. Evans. It's good to see you've returned." Mr. Bertrand, the Maître d', smiled at them from the podium, looking quietly elegant in a black dress shirt, burnished red silk vest and black slacks (he didn't have a good view of the slacks, but Sam remembered Mr. Bertrand fighting Dad tooth and nail against them—Dad won).

"Hi, Mr. Bertrand." Sam returned his smile, cast his eyes around the foyer. "Mom says hello and thanks. Dude, the place looks great."

And it did. Before, the restaurant was covered in dull browns and blacks, which Dad had said was "fine for the eighties, but who wanted to continue to relive those ghastly times?" but now, the place was vibrant. The brown walls replaced with cream, the dark dusty floor traded out for warm maple wood (if he sniffed hard enough, Sam could still smell it), the chairs and chairs were oak with white tablecloths on some tables, others draped in the same color as Mr. Bertrand's (and the rest of the wait staff bustling around) vest. The mini chandeliers above their heads had white and red bulbs, illuminating the restaurant and giving it a warm, hazy feel.

Sam grinned, impressed with the changes. The restaurant fit more with the surrounding area, and the cold refinement from before had no place in Ohio. Dad, if he wanted to see again, would be proud.

"Yes, it's been quite amazing to see the difference from then and now," Mr. Bertrand agreed, looking around the restaurant as well. He sighed pleasantly, a smile firmly in place. "It's partly due to your father. Send him our sincerest thanks. It took a moment to get used to his…brusqueness, but he made it worthwhile."

Sam chuckled, looked askance at Kurt and blushed under the weight of his gaze. The guy was giving off some serious curious vibes. "Yeah, Dad can be on an acquired taste, but he's worth the effort."

Mr. Bertrand laughed, eyes lighting up with mischief and interest as they fell on Kurt. "Indeed. Let me get you seated. I wouldn't want the dawdling of an old man to stand in the way of young love."

Sam snorted, because seriously, Mr. Bertrand was third generation French-American, and the dude was at most thirty-five.

Mr. Bertrand led them through the large room to a corner booth in the back, the leather a tarnished red and butter soft to the touch. Mr. Bertrand handed them their menus with subtle flair, the pleasant noise of silverware on plates and laughter and romance pulsing through the room like a tidal wave.

"Antoinette will be your server tonight; remember her?" Mr. Bertrand winked at Sam over Kurt's shoulder, smile both wolfish and kinda indulgent. "Enjoy your evening, boys."

"Okay, what was _that_?" Kurt whispered over the top of the one page menu once Mr. Bertrand left. "Does your mom know everybody? Is your mom in politics, your dad a designer or something?"

Sam grimaced. Mom in politics would be an _nightmare_. "No, Mom's just Mom and Dad likes to make money. Dad saw the notices of the renovations when we came here in May, and he tried the food, he wanted to make sure the new design and atmosphere of the restaurant fit the food." Sam looked at his menu for someplace else to give his attention, instead of Kurt's frown. "We were here for like three hours after they closed. Dad offended one of the servers and Mr. Bertrand so bad that Mr. Bertrand senior—the owner and dad to the guy you just met—came down from his office to see what all the noise was about; plus, Mr. Bertrand junior doesn't get upset about _anything_, and his dad wanted to meet the person that made his face so red from the yelling. After Bertrand senior told the server Dad offended to call the cops, Dad gave him his business card. Things smoothed out after that."

"Is he some kind of guru, your dad?" Kurt asked, eyes skimming over the menu, agitation seemingly gone.

Whoever though Kurt was anything but easy-going, wasn't worth knowing. Sure, the guy got pissed, was single-minded and could interrogate you like you wouldn't _believe_, but it was only because he was a plain talker and a realist. After Kurt got to know you, he accepted you for what you were, good or bad.

Sam smiled, slid his hand across the cream linen table cloth and took Kurt's right hand off the menu, locked their fingers together. "Sorta," he said, getting his brain back on track. Right; Dad's job. "He's like a financial life coach. He's known as one of the best in some circles, I guess. He likes to know everything about business, down to the smallest details. His ideas for Helene's saved the Bertrands a lot of money. I guess after Bertrand senior saw Dad's card he know who he was. Well, that's what it looked like. I mean, they still fought—Dad said he bet their new business model and planned décor was crap—but they did call of the police."

Kurt laughed, shaking his head. "Sam, I have no idea what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything. That's not why I told you." Sam shrugged, looked at their hands knotted together. "You wanted to know, so now you know."

Antoinette, a busty blond—no, brunette, now—walked up to their table, a copy of Mr. Bertrand's outfit looking good against her tan skin and long curls cascading over her shoulders.

She smiled at Kurt, grin widening as she looked at Sam, brown eyes as warm and welcoming as Mr. Bertrand's had been. "Welcome back, Sam. It is good to see you," she said, words a little jumbled in her heavily accented English.

Sam smiled too, pleased. He hadn't been sure Antoinette knew English when he first met her. At the time she was giving Dad a dressing down in French at the top of her lungs. Dad wasn't impressed and said so, in French, making her let out a bloodcurdling scream that Sam remembered actually shook the windows. "Hey, Antoinette, it's good to be back. I like the new look."

She ran a quick hand through the soft curls at his waist, a saucy grin in place. "Thank you. Being told by your father that a true French woman would never try to be anything other than herself had stung, to say the least. I was hoarse for a week after." She laughed, her peals of laughter reminding him of Ms. Hudson. "But he was right. I was never meant to be a platinum blond."

"Dad would like it." Sam glance at Kurt, who smiled up at Antoinette, interested. "Kurt, this is Antoinette, the younger Mr. Bertrand's sister, and their father owns Helene's, like I mentioned." He waited a minute, let Antoinette and Kurt exchange pleasantries. "Would it be okay if Kurt tried out his French on you?" he asked, pulling out all the stops, puppy dog eyes and all.

Antoinette scoffed, sounding disturbingly like Kurt. She beamed down at Kurt, leaning an arm on the top of their booth. "As if I would pass up the occasion." And just like that, she was off, rapid, eager and holding nothing back.

Kurt held his own, no surprise there, his laughter warm when Antoinette glanced at sam and made a comment, tone sly and teasing.

Sam turned his attention to the menu, gave Kurt his moment to shine (one of many, he figured, so he might as well get used to it), French filling the air around him like sun in word form. They laughed again as Sam looked up, found Antoinette and Kurt smiling at him.

"Ready to order?" Kurt asked, smirk heavy and left brow raised high.

Sam licked his lips, took pleasure in Kurt following his tongue. He nodded. "Number one for starters, four for entree."

Kurt rolled his eyes, sharing a look with Antoinette, rattling off Sam's order in French, pointing at his own menu with his free hand, spoke some more.

"Good choices, gentlemen. I'll get the order in so you can continue, your little love dance—_courting_, I mean," Antoinette said pleased and sly, collecting their menus and sauntering off.

"You told her all that in French?" Sam blinked at Kurt, impressed. "Didn't seem like that much time passed."

Kurt blushed, head dipped. "She guessed most of it after I told her this was a first date. She said we're circling each other, like a dance."

"Circling each other?" Sam felt both his eyebrows go up as he thought about it. "Huh. She's kind of right."

Kurt chuckled, cheerful as he looked at Sam from under his lashes. "Yes, she is."

* * *

"Tell me something I wouldn't learn in regular conversation," Kurt said, fork sliding through the three layer cake in the middle of their table, compliments of the house.

The appetizers and entrees were as good as Sam remembered, maybe better now that Kurt was here. They'd strayed away from the heavy topics, the food taking precedence for a while as they shared their meals. Kurt went into detail about wanting to see his name across the most important marquee on the most important square in musical theater, Sam sharing his childhood dream of owning any kind of pet; that sort of thing.

"Like what?" Sam asked, leaning over the table a bit so Kurt could put the piece of cake into his mouth. And wow, it was good. On first glance, he thought it was a fancy vanilla cake, but it was lemon, with some sort of berry—

"Raspberry," Kurt supplied, eyes bright and mischievous. "Antoinette recommended it earlier and I thought you'd like the surprise."

Sam hummed tunelessly, eyes half mast while he savored the dessert, warmth pooling at the base of his spine as Kurt watched him like a hawk. "It's good."

"I'll start," Kurt said after a lengthy pause, lips parted ever so slightly. "My middle name's Elizabeth."

He'd known that already, but there was no way he could tell Kurt that without Mom looking like a stalker. He nodded, swallowed. "Until I was three years old, my name was Samantha."

Kurt smirked, looking pretty unimpressed. "Good one. How long did it take you to come up with that?"

"I didn't, it's the truth," Sam assured, using his fork to slide a piece of cake between Kurt's lips. "Dad wasn't around when I was born and Mom filled out the certificate. It wasn't until we were audited that Dad came across it. Dad never suspected 'cause Mom always called me Sam."

"Why would she call you Samantha? That's so weird," Kurt said after he swallowed the cake, eyes closing for a second or two.

Sam shrugged. "Mom wants me to be just like her. Anyway, Dad flipped and they compromised on Samuel."

"I have to be honest, Sam. You have the weirdest stories." Kurt shook his head, tongue swiping his lower lip. "I believe you, but that's based on the absurdity of no one being able to make that story up."

"If they did, it would suck." Sam scrunched his noise. "Let's switch it up. I'll tell you something I know about you that you didn't know I knew."

"This should be entertaining," Kurt avowed, placing his fork on the plate and putting his elbows on the table, smile eager, eyes both shy and nervous. "Astound me."

"Prepare yourself," Sam said, putting the fork down and mirroring Kurt. "All of us in Glee think you're brave and you do too, but you don't know why." He watched Kurt's smile fade a little. "It's because bravery is a part of who you are, dude. You get discouraged and stuff like the rest of us, but I don't think you know how to stay down. Words like _can't_ and _shouldn't_ don't make sense to you. We think you try to be cool, confident and brave, but that's not what it is. The secret about you, Kurt, is that being cool, confident and brave is your default setting."

"_Sam_." Kurt reached across the table, left hand shaking a little as be covered Sam's right. "I—"

"I see you liked the cake," Antoinette said as she sidled up to the table, smile sunny. "It was romantic, I hope?"

"It was really good," Sam said, returning her smile as he squeezed Kurt's hand and pulled away. "But it's getting late."

Antoinette handed him the booklet without missing a beat, glancing at Kurt, an indulgent smile on her face. Sam handed it right back to her, card inside. "I'll return shortly," she said, eyes soft as she looked at him.

"I forget you're observant when you want to be," Kurt whispered, pensive once Antoinette hurried off. He leaned in the booth, never looking so vulnerable before. "It surprises me without fail when you do that."

"It's a gift that comes and goes," Sam mumbled, face warm, a little panicked. "Sorry if that wasn't—"

"Don't insult me with an apology, Sam. That's the—the most caring thing anyone has said to me." Kurt smiled then, sweet, if a little shocked. "Thank you."

Sam inclined his head, at a loss. He was happy Kurt liked what he said, but if he'd known Kurt was gonna react like that, he would have saved it for a place not so public.

Quick as the last time, Antoinette was at the table again. She handed the booklet to Sam. "It's been a pleasure to be your server tonight, boys. Kurt, you have charmed me and if our Samuel doesn't snap you right up, call me and I will find a lesser fool."

"Gee, thanks." Sam rolled his eyes, and after signing the receipt and leaving a big tip, he returned the booklet to Antoinette. "See ya."

"It's been a pleasure," Kurt said, grin a mile wide and so real, Sam wasn't sure if he'd imagined the last few minutes. "If you're even in Lima, look me up."

Sam stood, put his card back in his wallet and watched Kurt and Antoinette share a smile and a wave. He slipped his hand back into Kurt's, led the way out of the restaurant.

The drive back to Kurt's was surprisingly quiet. Sam thought Kurt would be going a mile a minute, but he seemed content to look out the window as the oldies station he'd picked our earlier played.

Sam pulled into Kurt's driveway, not too surprised to see all but Finn's car gone. To tell the truth, he was relieved. It would have been weird to see some of the glee club members after their date. Hell, it'd been weird to see them _before_ the date.

Sam got out the car, glanced at the sky, mind quiet, at peace.

"You want to see space," Kurt said and Sam watched Kurt as he walked around the front of the car, taking Sam's hand. "You want to be an astronaut."

"If I could have my dream job, that would be it. But I'd settle for an air pilot." He squeezed Kurt's hand, pleased and not surprised.

"Don't settle," Kurt reprimanded, eyes bright and unassuming. "Pete Conrad was the third man to walk on the Moon, the first man who happened to have dyslexia."

"Sam laughed, looked up at the stars, bemused. Why would he be surprised now? Kurt already knew so much about him—secrets he'd never wanted to tell anyone. What was different about this one? "You researched."

Kurt scoffed and tugged Sam toward his door at a meandering pace. "Of course I did. We can't be outside at night without you looking up."

Sam's heart picked up pace as Kurt stopped them at the front door, pupils blown under the front door lights. "I didn't want to get my hopes up for tonight, but even if I had, you exceeded them. It wasn't the performance or Helene's that did it. It was the conversation and how I didn't feel like I was on a date. We were just us." Kurt smiled, though it faded. "Sometimes it scared me how well you know me."

"It scares me how much you want to get to know me," Sam blurted, heart tripping. "All the time."

"It's only because the more I learn about you, the more I want to know," Kurt whispered, leaning in close, their noses brushing. "But even if I knew everything about you, I'd still want more."

Sam gave in, pressed his lips against Kurt's, and swallowed both their sighs. He squeezed Kurt's hand, his other moving up his body and resting on the back of Kurt's neck. He pulled back a little, ran his tongue across Kurt's bottom lip, tasting cake. Kurt opened his mouth and Sam slipped his tongue in. Kurt moaned, the sound vibrated against his tongue and teeth and Sam flushed head to toe.

"Come inside," Kurt murmured against his mouth, freeing Sam's left hand, fingers creeping under Sam's suit jacket and curling around Sam's belt loops. "Stay with me a little longer."

Sam shivered, his unoccupied hand landing on Kurt's shoulder, the other playing with the hair at the nape of Kurt's neck. "This isn't how courting is supposed to go. You're supposed to be cute, coy and sweet, not hot, sexy and porntastic."

Kurt stilled, breath hitching as he chuckled low and dark. "Porntastic? I don't think you'll find that in the dictionary."

"Probably not, but my dick's hard and I can't think right now." And that totally wasn't a whine, because he didn't whine. It was, uh, a grievance. _Grievance_. "I need to get away from you before I listen to you and get buckshot in my ass."

"The gun hasn't been loaded the last three times you've come by, so you're in the clear. All this restraint from you is getting irritating. That was the first time we kissed since last week." Kurt's mouth was pretty cute when it was shaped in a moue, eyes hot and frustrated all at the same time.

"Dude, I'm courting you. We're supposed to, like, abstain from the kissing and I'm supposed to have a constant hard-on for you," He managed to say over the rush of blood in his veins. "Plus, you said you wanted to take it slow, and I want to date you."

"True, but that was before tonight happened and you made me a little less scared to want this." Kurt smirked, a little saucy, a lot happy. "Many bounds were leaped tonight."

He chuckled into Kurt's mouth as Kurt tugged him closer by his belt loops, reveled in Kurt's tongue searching his mouth for the first time, tentative but not shy.

"You'll never know how much I want you. _Never_," Sam breathed against Kurt's cheek. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, took a step back. He opened his eyes, took in Kurt's flushed cheeks and swollen lips. "But one date's not good enough."

"I think you're good enough," Kurt replied quick as lightening, but he didn't try to close the distance between them.

"I think you're better," Sam said, giving in and running a thumb against Kurt's jawline, already feeling bereft. "Night, Kurt."

He didn't wait to see if Kurt went inside. If Kurt was as smart as Sam knew he was, he was inside before Sam made it to his car.

* * *

"Don't you think you've slept long enough?"

It wasn't hard for Sam to imagine why people were freaked out by Dad.

He stretched and rolled onto his back, not really surprised Dad was sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at him.

"Is she still asleep?" Sam asked, sitting up and scooting up until his back was against the headboard.

Dad grimaced, looking pained. "Don't questions like that unless you want a detailed answer, but yes, she's asleep, for now. Was there a reason why you were sleeping so late?"

Sam glanced at the clock. It was eight am. "I had a date last night." There wasn't any point saying anything else. Dad hated late risers, even if he slept like the dead and almost just as long when he was home. But Sam was pretty use that wasn't Dad's choice, more Mom's.

"Your mother doesn't understand what you see in him. This Kurt person must be a good influence, then." Dad smiled, honest, brisk and concise like everything else about him. "Your mother's overall disinterest must be a large point in his favor."

"Even if she loved him, I wouldn't let her hurt him," Sam answered honestly, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "And still, I think he'd stay. Kurt can't really be chased off."

"Someone with fortitude. I'm intrigued," Dad said, eyes—_warm_. Huh.

"What made you change?" Sam asked, and yeah, he was abrupt about the topic change, but Dad would appreciate. But honestly, all the warm feelings emanating off of Dad was kinda bizarre.

"On Wednesday, you're mother mentioned she wanted to have another child." Dad looked at him, gaze level and clear. "I had a vasectomy while laid over in Papua New Guinea."

Sam shuddered, nodded. "Good idea."

Dad ran his hand through his hair, the movement jilted, uneven. "There's going to be a lot of changes. She's growing out of hand."

"She's been out of hand since I've been born," Sam muttered to his hands in his lap, anger and desolation rising. "There's no telling what the changes you want to do will stick. She might be worse because you're around, just to fuck with you."

"Fucking with people is her way of life," Dad said, and sighed. "Your behavior toward her helped absolutely no one. It can't continue, understand?"

"I wasn't enabling, Dad. I was coping. Living here is pretty horrible, and you'd know that if you were actually around." Sam glared at Dad, pissed. "There's no point fighting who she is. Just accept it and move on."

"If I were to accept it, how would I move on? You're implying that you've accepted her as is, and living here is horrible. Would you wish the same thing on me?" Dad looked at the ceiling for a moment, dropped his eyes to Sam again. "I can't accept it, Sam. I love her. I know you don't understand what I mean—"

"It means loving him despite the bad things, _through_ the bad things, and if he was diagnosed as –as _that_, to stick with him," Sam said to his hands, blood bumping. "Loving him means it's not always gonna be easy and I have to face the fact that he'll never be able to return what I feel for him more than on the surface, but that's okay, because I love enough for the both of us." Sam lifted his eyes, lips a thin line. "Is that what you mean by love? Because Dad, I understand."

Dad smirked, inclined his head. "I was wrong. You do understand, and better than I did for a very long time. But don't assume that loving your mother will last forever, Sam. Her kind of love rankles, after a time. I see how you look at us. You'll hate us soon enough, if things continue as they are."

"Yeah, but what other option is there? Leave again? If I hadn't almost went crazy too and you giving me an out here, I don't—I can't anymore, okay? I can't go back to Dalton if it means that I'll be like her when I get there."

"You were like her at that school because you didn't want to consider the other option, Son." Dad shook his head, eyes on the carpet, voice cool, disappointed. "You could have been yourself, but you were scared."

"Scared like you, too." Sam shot back, tapping his foot against Dad's waist. "I was only doing what you did." Dad flinched, and Sam smiled. Yeah, it was petty, but it was so true. He learned how to run from Dad.

"You aren't wrong." Dad took the verbal hit, nodding and looking back to Sam, a grim smile on his face. "I'm well aware I fucked you over in the worst way possible. Know that I wouldn't have come to Dalton and request you take my place unless I was at a breaking point. I've loved your mother for twenty years and before now, it was always enough to curb her. It's not anymore, and it reeks of failure."

"She would probably be dead or in jail if not for you, Dad. Don't beat yourself up too bad." Sam scratched his nose, watching Dad's shoulders slump. "I would have died a long time ago if you hadn't sent me away, so, uh, thanks."

"I guess people would assume we're strange; a son thanking his father for sending him to various boarding schools in order to keep his mother from killing him before he could defend himself." Dad chuckled, sounding broken, as if he was already in mourning, already given up. "I wonder what they would say if they knew I left you here to watch over her while I ran across the planet?"

"They'd say you're the worst fucking Dad on the planet, probably." Sam shrugged at Dad's slightly widened eyes and parted mouth. "Just saying."

Dad blinked at him; laughed, the sound less self deprecating, and more amused than Sam thought he'd ever hear it. "Thank you. I wasn't quite sure before if I'd ranked high enough for the honor, but your assurances have eased my mind."

"Welcome," Sam said, tucking his tongue in his cheek. "But at least now you can make up for it."

Dad narrowed his eyes, a little light and maybe happiness showing through them."It won't be easy, but it's imperative there be a change. I'll need your help, Sam. We can't gain anything from this without a little effort. Do I have your help?"

"You're talking about Connecticut, aren't you?" Sam asked, disturbed. He didn't know how he knew, but things always started and ended in Connecticut for them. Always.

"Yes," Dad said, tone leading, his brows furrowed. "Connecticut has everything we need. Does that change anything?"

"No, not really, but you're gonna hate what my conditions are." Sam allowed himself to smile, the rest of his plan coming to a finish, the missing link finally revealing itself. God, it was _perfect_. "I mean, you're gonna _hate_ them."

"A business deal. There might be hope for you yet, Sam." Dad smiled shark-like, the prowess known in the highest social and economic circles brightening his face, eyes coming alive with interest. "State your terms."

* * *

"Hello?" Kurt said groggily, sounding like he was putting some major effort into cutting off a yawn.

Sam smiled, eyes on the power lines outside Kurt's house. "Are you open for late night visitors? I need to speak with you."

"You're already here, aren't you?" Kurt sounded pretty awake now, the amusement in his tone bordering on irritation. "You should try calling me before you leave your house. What if I wasn't home?"

"It's ten o'clock on a Sunday night. You act like I don't know your habits," Sam teased into the phone as he got out the car and made his way to Kurt's door. "Let me in, Dude. I've got shoes on this time and everything, so there's no excuse."

Kurt sighed into the phone, sounding long suffering but not exactly pulling it off. "I let you put your disgusting grass and asphalt covered feet all over my bed last time. If I was willing to do that then, shoes are obviously an improvement. Hurry up, I'm going to the door now."

And the dial tone. Sam allowed himself a really quiet chuckle as he leaned against the front door. "You're kinda pissy when you're woken up," he said when Kurt opened the door about a minute later in a white undershirt and light blue pajama pants. "You weren't the last time."

"The last time you were _squeezing the air from my lungs_ and I never slept." Kurt sent him a low level glare, and waved Sam in. "Come on, Dad just went to bed about five minutes ago and I'm not in the mood to handle that drama."

"I was wondering," Sam started once they'd made it safely to Kurt's room. He chucked off his shoes as he watched Kurt climb into the bed and sprawl out like a cat. He climbed in after him, waited until Kurt was settled before laying his head on Kurt's stomach. "I've got an idea—"

"Always a bad thing," Kurt said, threading a hand through his hair.

"Ha ha." Sam leaned into Kurt's fingers, the ache of missing Kurt lessening. "But um, I was thinking about what you said about the courting thing, and so…would one huge romantic gesture—a gesture that would be like three dates combined—cancel out the courting period?"

Kurt's hand stilled, and his abs tightened under Sam's head. "How do you mean?"

Sam turned on his side, nuzzled Kurt's belly button through his shirt until the tension bled out of Kurt. He smiled into the fabric as Kurt arched up a little into his mouth. "I think you'll love it, but it's a serious move. And if I pulled it off, I don't think you'd be able to resist me."

Kurt's fingers tightened in his hair and Sam rode out Kurt's laughter. "_Really_? I don't know, Sam," he teased, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I thought the whole point of courting was for me to be coy, cute and sweet and for you to have a hard-on constantly. Wouldn't one big romantic gesture ruin everything?"

"Well, I've got this idea that I think you'd love, but it would be a serious move, and if I pulled it off, I don't think you'd be able to resist me." Sam shrugged, grinning. "And I wouldn't put up a fight, like _at all_."

"Really? I'm not sure that's possible, Sam. I've got a strong constitution," Kurt said, sobering some. "You made good points last night."

Sam wrapped his left arm around Kurt's waist, buried half his mouth in Kurt's shirt. "Thank you, but what I want to suggest doesn't change any of those points. It just, uh, combines them."

"Combines them?" Kurt asked after a minute, hand tugging on Sam's hair. "What exactly do you have planned?"

Sam complied to Kurt's silent request, lifting his head and looking at him."A trip. A trip that I don't know if I'd be able to make through if you weren't there. Also, if I can do the things I want while we're there, you're totally gonna chain yourself to me forever, like Princess Leia and Jabba the Hut."

"Ugh, that huge worm thing?" Kurt shivered, and not in the good way. "Wow, Sam, how can I resist you now? You're such charmer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're laughing now—well, okay, you're _not_ laughing—but you should give it some serious thought."

"Fine, fine. Okay, you want me to take a trip with you. A trip you don't know if you can make…wait," Kurt stilled, his breath stalling, stomach muscles jumping under Sam's chin as he watched Kurt think. "What's going on? What's your dad planning to do?"

"He thinks Mom can still get help, so he's taking her back home. It's only for a few days to see some specialists, but Mom's…condition can't really be treated." Sam sighed, accepted the pressure Kurt's hand put on his head as the comfort it was. "It's his way of performing a Hail Mary. We talked a lot today about what to do, but he hasn't given up on Mom."

"Your mom—are you saying _she's_ the cause of everything that's been going on?" Kurt sat up a little, and Sam shifted until he was on his back, looking up at Kurt's big eyes and furrowed brow. "But I thought your dad—"

"Everybody thinks it's my dad. He wants it that way. I mean, he's still a bastard, that'll probably never change. He tries to protect Mom, but I don't think he wants to accept how much Mom can't care about all he's doing." Sam smiled, weight lifting off his chest. "Dad's the worst, but it's not because he's evil or anything. He's tired."

"Not good enough, for me, Sam." Kurt said, shaking his head. "I saw the bare shelves, the work gloves, the _clock_. He's got a lot to make up for, and if what you're implying is correct, your mom's mental condition excuses her from blame. But he's got no excuse."

"You're not going to get a complaint out of me, but our talk went pretty far in making things better." Sam shrugged, suppressing the urge to kiss Kurt senseless. "The point is, he's trying to make things better."

"I'll go with you. There's no way in hell I'm letting you go by yourself." Kurt gave him a sharp nod, face fierce and determined. "Now all we've got to do is convince Dad it's a good idea."

Sam laughed, joy rising up like bubbles inside him, fragile and light. _Sweet._ "Don't worry, that's where the world's best financial life coach comes in."

* * *

So, I rewrote this chapter. I rewrote it three times and rewrote it again as I was getting ready to post. You know how sometimes you're sure that you've got everything mapped out, but you have your doubts, and when it comes time to shine, you realize that your gut was right and shit just got real? Yeah, that feeling.

When I looked at this thing on Monday, I had some extreme dislike for it. I know writing is a process and whatnot, but if I'd posted this chapter as it was, I think it would have been a cop out. I needed a break from all the angst and writing all out romance isn't easy for me to accomplish.

**I'm going to change the posting day to Saturday and see if that'll help me stay on track**. I think my life's too hectic to expect myself to go over a draft and make changes before a midweek posting. Thankfully there aren't that many chapters left, so that's a relief!

Thanks for being so patient, and I really, really hope this late chapter is interesting and not irritating.


	7. HIATUS UNTIL AUGUST

Story on **HIATUS** until August

This story was only supposed to be around ten thousand words, but it grew.

Since I made massive changes in the last chapter, I needed to get in my head and figure out what's supposed to happen next. That's not unusual for me, but I entered the Merlin Big Bang challenge again (as planned last year), and I'll need six months to get that story readable.

I was supposed to be done with _Masks for the Maskless_ by the end of this month, but it didn't happen. As soon as I have _Breach_ done to my satisfaction, I'll start up this fic again. Might happen before August (I hope), might not. But in August, the Merlin BB will have gone live so my prior commitment with the challenge will have been fulfilled.

I'm sorry that this happened. I like Glee, but love Merlin and my other shows, so any writing for those other shows (Sanctuary, Doctor Who, Supernatural, Merlin and other Sci-fi/fantasy shows) will always come first.

Thanks for your time, and I'm really sorry!

Skater.


End file.
